The Outcasts - Whiskey Creek Press

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Tawny, sleek, and as dangerous as the predator for which he'd been named, the magnificent male emerged from the boulders at the apex of the Great Falls. "Wait," he snarled, "it seems I've waited for you all my life! My time for claiming you as my own is near."

Lone Bear stalked to the edge of the woods. His trained, hunter's ear strained for the sound of her coming. "What's keeping you, Flame?" A twig snapped. He smiled as he dove back into concealment.

* * * *

Cast out? Not while Mother was matriarch of the longhouse. But, cast aside from birth by the others of her Munsi Clan, she must live it. There was no escape.

Flame emerged like a shadow from the tree-lined path. Her carry basket overflowed with the herbs she'd harvested that day. Mother would be pleased. Medicines were a necessary part of every travel pack. Tomorrow the clan's last trip to the roaring salty water for this harvest season would begin.

Twilight enveloped the clearing before the Great Falls. Its churning waters bellowed as they careened over the rocky ledge, down into the peaceful pool below. "Will I, in time, do the same? I yearn for peace." The nubile maid questioned the unseen spirits of nature that she sensed about her. "The water is fulfilling the destiny ordained by He Who Created All. Shall I? What is His plan for my future? If I only knew!"

Behind her, with the aid of the great night light in the sky, she strained to see the outline of her beloved mountain. Flame ached to flee forever to its secure, craggy pinnacle. Many times, without the benefit of Mother's permission or companionship, she'd slipped away to find solace. There, she'd stand alone upon its majestic summit. She'd survey the panorama of the forests and the ribbon of the silver river that wove within their heights. There, too, she'd offer thanks for the splendor that He gifted to The People. In those private moments, she could escape from their treatment. They did not hurt her. Worse, they simply ignored her. She lived and labored as a tolerated outcast.

Flame wanted more. She longed to be accepted. Mother, Father, and little Singha loved her. Her parents would some day travel their paths to the Twelfth Heaven. Without their protection, would she be allowed to remain within the village? Could she survive by herself?

The Munsi Clan of the Lenape Tribe of the Delaware Nation had lived for countless turnings of the seasons in this lush location beside the river that would be named Passaic. The benevolent spirits of fish, game, trees, and crops cohabited with The People in northern Scheyechbi. Mother Earth remained kind to her children. All strove to be ever careful to return their respect and gratitude for her endowments. Did she not provide this river that ran to and from the powerful falls? Its might symbolized the frailty of the beings permitted to exist within Mother Earth's embrace. As the most frail of the animals, her people were taught from infancy to give their thanks. All were joined in harmony in this matriarchal society. Each had their role in family, clan, and tribe. All belonged and were recognized as belonging. All but Flame!

She removed the tumpline from her forehead. Her basket slid to the ground. This might be her last private moment for days. She yanked off the leather thong that bound her flame colored braids. She dragged her porcupine quill comb through the soft, shining mass that fell below her tiny waist. It was only when alone that she took time to care for her personal appearance. Flame despised her body. The color of her hair, the pale, creamy peach of her skin, and blue of her eyes were the marks of her deformities—obvious evidence of her differences from the others. She was the only person in all of Lenape Hoking who looked this way. All could see and pointed out, by their actions, their awareness of these abnormalities.

Flame often tried to hunch over and sink into total invisibility. Then Mother would reprimand her to stand erect: "You must be thankful and proud of the gifts bestowed upon you by He Who Created All, my daughter. You will, when it is time, discover and fulfill His special destiny for you. Place your thoughts and efforts in learning what you need to know to prepare yourself to serve Him. Do not concentrate on outer differences. He created you to look as you do. He has a purpose for us all. You are His. Rejoice and grow strong as you complete your Trek toward the trail that leads to the Twelfth Heaven. Self-absorption and ingratitude are sins. They, I fear, will lead you to unnecessary agony and perhaps destruction. Your assigned tasks are also a part of the future of our clan. You would not have been sent if it were not so."

Her parents nurtured her. However, they couldn't shield her from the shunning of the other girls with their magnificent dark hair and eyes, and golden skin. Her peers were being sought as mates. Her older sister, Hearth Flower, was already carrying a child and very preoccupied with her new husband, Lone Bear, from the Unalactigo Clan.

Eighteen harvest seasons were notched in Flame's counting stick. Her blood flow had long ago begun. At least she was physically able to fulfill the tribe's perceived role for a female. She could hunt and fish as well as any man or woman, if and when allowed. She could weave baskets and mats, create waterproof pottery containers for food, tan hides, sew clothing, grow and prepare food—even the maize that was the woman's ceremonial token of every betrothal. But…would any man ever offer the bounty of his hunt to her mother, to request her as his mate? If so, would her children be marked as she was? What male could wish to pass on her deformities to his offspring? As yet, none had ever looked upon her with undisguised longing. Well perhaps ‘he', but if she were right, this might also bring pain to one she loved. What would happen to her when her parents began their journeys into the sky? An object of charity she would never be! She would mate. She'd be a mother. She'd have a longhouse of her own.

She stamped her foot. "I, too, will be a matriarch within my clan!" Flame proclaimed her thoughts aloud. Her speech was louder than the rumbling torrent before her. Her words startled her back to reality. Anger dissolved into terror. Flame threw her arms up in supplication and began to pray. "Please! Forgive me Kishelenukong for not appreciating what you have so bountifully bestowed upon me, your daughter. I beg You to not punish me for my ingratitude. I beseech that You send me a mate of my own. I trust You to care for me, as You do all of Your creations. If my parents are correct, I swear that I shall do my best to fulfill and complete, without complaint, the duties that you have for me. I promise to serve Your people and Your creations in whatever ways You desire. I will work hard. Just overlook the indiscretions of my youth." Although her words were both loud and appropriate, her heart spoke another message. He knew the truth.

Flame rebraided her hair. She would return to the safety of Mother and the longhouse. She needed rest. Mother needed her help. The journey down the Minisink Trail was long. Singha, Mother's youngest daughter, would be giving all a difficult time. At least Singha still sought her out and clung to her. Even that would change with time. Then what? "I wish I could be satisfied to live in the present and worry less about what is to come. I need faith! No, I need sleep!"

Shoulders bent, head down, hands clasped to hold the basket against her heaving chest, Flame crept back to the others. Among them, she'd await the arrival of Una Shaunaxawesh, Grandmother of Where The Daylight Begins.

* * * *

First mate, Nooramantia smiled at the two crewmen before him. They were different from the other seamen. Both seemed to have been educated. He had seen them writing—what, they were not about to share with him. Schooled or not, they were a real asset to his crew. They never balked at any order. Often they even made some good suggestions.

"You two take the second watch tonight. I can count on you. It's hard to believe that this is your first time aboard ship, Farriday. The problem is the squabbles between you and Van Snel. I know it isn't all your making. Try to stay away from him whenever you can."

"I do. He's looking for trouble. I'm not," replied the young sailor.

"I understand. I have trouble with him too. Coleman, you are teaching the boy many skills. Look after him if you can. Now get some sleep before your watch. And speaking of rest, I'll leave you now to get some myself."

"Lad, it's time for them to pass out the rum below. A bit of it will do you much good. Join us?"

"I hate the stuff, John."

"It'll make you forget your troubles."

"I need to remember, not forget."

"Michael, haven't you learned that staring off over the water, night after night, won't make your memory just pop out?"

"At least watching moonlight and waves brings me some peace. The din and smoke below gives me headaches."

The rough-hewn seaman placed a callused, yet gentle, ham of a hand on the broadening shoulder of his friend. Together they gazed out upon the undulating swells of sea that continued until it met the horizon. "Stop trying to look back. It's behind both of us now, please God."

"You know all of your past, John, good and bad. You can accept it and let it be. You can be certain that today is better than what you had before joining this crew. I don't know this. I don't know if here is even where I belong."

"In one way or another lad, all of us have only now. Yesterday's history, tomorrow's a mystery, but today is a gift. So make the most of now, if that is all you know."

"I can't just forget about it!"

"Forget what?"

"My past—so many unanswered questions lie back there in England."

"You can't go back! We escaped that accursed land months ago. They'd send you back to that jail. Even Van Snel is better than those prison guards."

Michael nodded.

"Holland and Captain Hudson have been good to us so far. Can't you be satisfied with remembering that?"

The Half Moon seemed to race across the waves. Each minute took them further from danger.

But no answer came to, or from, the virile, young aquanaut. He remained wrapped in that invisible cloak of despair that isolated him from all. At times like these, even from his rescuer, John Coleman.

"Must you always torture yourself?"

"I've been to prison for crimes that I do not even know if I committed. I've been accused, convicted, and sentenced as a robber and rapist. That is all I know of my life."

The agony that was reflected in the fathomless, green depths of Michael's eyes silenced his would-be comforter. The Sampson-like zealot couldn't be reached. "Please, go away, Coleman. Some demons are best fought by those they hound."

"For all your fancy words and learning, I do feel sorry for you, son."

"I know you care, but save the sympathy!" Michael struggled to fight back the tears that threatened to break through his wall of suffering. His body sagged under its self-imposed burdens. "Get away from me."

Defeated once again in his relentless quest to bring surcease to his self-appointed charge, Coleman prepared to retreat. "They'd best have saved me my rum. It helps me to sleep."

"If it'll shut you up, take mine too."

Michael was finally alone to try to sort out his past. He could meander amidst the quagmire of events that seemed to suck him down, but he couldn't penetrate further back than that time when he had awoken, battered and bruised, in that London prison. Coleman forced him to come back to sanity. John was a caregiver all right! First jailed for stealing to feed his family, then imprisoned for the theft of enough money to bury his Mother, John had been the one to nurse his body back to health. Together they had bartered and bribed their way from jail to the work detail. Together they had eluded their unwatchful guards. Together they had fled to Holland as alleged members of an unwanted religious sect. Again, these two had slipped away and joined the crew of Captain Henry Hudson's trading vessel, The Half Moon. Together they would earn the money to unite John with his wife and kids. He'd finally be able to do something for his friend.

Each evening, for the past five and one half months, the man—who had invented the name of Michael Farriday—had stood here. He peered out into the vistas of the Atlantic Ocean, dreaming of what might lie ahead of him. His duties upon this sturdy vessel brought a kind of physical pleasure. This life of warm clothes, enough food, and hard work suited him. Contrary to the many rumors, Henry Hudson had proven to be an exacting, but fair, captain. While in the service of the English, his crew was alleged to have threatened him with mutiny. Now Hudson sailed under the flag of the Netherlands. Amsterdam was the center of trade. None found it difficult to find work if they wanted it.

Michael raised to his full six foot of height to relieve the tensions in his back. He had become muscular rather than emaciated and scrawny. Laboring in the sun had tanned his skin to a rich, satiny golden hue. His healthy coloring further accentuated the vivid green of his eyes, as well as the red and gold highlights of his mane of chestnut hair. Life in the open sea air heightened his sense of self-confidence and virility.

Perhaps in this new land, if they could go on shore, he might find that certain kind of girl who would be attracted to him. Not like those dockside whores in Amsterdam, who chased anyone with money. She would be clean, innocent, and interested in more than his cash or his body. A picture of her began to dance before him. A flame-haired imp whose blue eyes could dazzle and ensnare all. Her complexion was peachy pale, with just a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She was slender and tall, with curves enough to tempt any man. She seemed so real! Did he know her from his past life? Had he met her? Was she his girl—his wife? Was she alone with a baby, perhaps his baby? Why couldn't he remember? When would he know? Natives surely couldn't look that way. Then where was she? Who was she? The vision danced again, prolonging his torment.

Bowing his head and clasping his hands, he began to pray. "God let me know." Know what? Even a horrible known truth would be better than this void. No, he would think only of his dream maiden. Perhaps if he could just concentrate hard enough, her name would come to him.

He slid in and out of his reverie as the ship raced across the sea. Its movements were like being rocked in a cradle. Smiling drowsily, Michael Farriday blew a kiss across the water to her. It flew on the wings of the moonlight as he softly crooned after it. "I am on my way to you, my beloved." Again she swam into focus. "Dream sweet dreams of me. Rest well until we meet in your land, wherever and whatever that may be. Please wait for me. I do need you so very much."

* * * *

And wrapped in her fur blanket, in a huge, hide covered longhouse in a village on the banks of the peaceful river below the Great Falls—Lenape Hoking—a long shuddering sigh escaped from between two lush, red lips. A yet untouched, yearning maiden dreamed a dream of love. From it, strength and hope were drawn into the lonely, longing spirit of the different one, the tolerated outcast—Flame.

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