Alice felt a grip taught on her arm and her body jerked roughly. She stumbled and felt the dust against her palms, her elbows jarred, her skirts twisted around her legs. A strong hand, all sinew, and rough skin, gripped her arm again and dragged her upward like a limbless doll. She could hear the blood coursing in her ears. Her mouth was dry. Angry voices were all around her. She could understand none of them. Her sister. Where was her sister? She stumbled, was dragged, along. She tried to keep one foot in front of the other. Tried not to fall again. Her wrists ached from the rough bindings. She scanned the sea of dark heads. All dark. All moving around her. Bodies. Like the eddy of a wild river. Where was Cora? Cora! She was right here. Then the shouting began and the crowd parted and she could see the fire, smell the stench of burning hair, skin. Strawberry blonde hair. Not black. Burning.
And then the noise and the din and the smoke receded as she was pushed along, dragged along, ascending up the path of rough stone and dust, into the mountain. The Huron village dropped away and was replaced by the cool, wet air of the forest. Alice breathed heavily as she continued her climb up the mountain pass. She heard her feet scrape against rock and grind into the dusty soil in a rhythmic configuration. Her breath came hard and ragged. There was no idle talk from the men that steered her. Only silence, and breath, the clink of metal and the smell of bodies and animal skins. Of sweat and man smell and smoke from the last fire. And blood. A savage and, somehow, intoxicating perfume. Anxiety foamed in her stomach. She could taste the bile in her mouth. Her lips and limbs felt strangely cold. Numb. She was all alone now and a dread, greater than any she had felt, began to rise inside her. Bleed into her flesh. Where were they taking her? Why her? Only her.
The mountain rose and the valley floor fell away. The sight was so beautiful it made her heart want to burst. She wanted to cry. She felt numb. She felt terror. The one they called Magwa strode two in front of her. He had only looked at her once since the chief had spoken. Since they had taken her from the group, her sister, and her world had been torn asunder. That look was filled with all seething, acrid, malevolence. She had only made out a few words in French during the meeting with the sachem. "Magwa", "blonde child", "wife" "hate" "heart". Had she been given to this man as a prize? Like a shiny object or a traders trinket. The equivalent of a skin of whiskey. From the look on his face, it seemed to her that he would have been gladder had she been just that. By the look on his face, he would have been gladder if it had been her flesh that had burned in the... Alice shut her eyes tightly against the thought. Strawberry blonde. Hair like fire. Duncan. No. She could not think of it.
Her thoughts turned, unbidden, to dark, black hair. Almost liquid as she ran her fingers through it. Had found a braid and had toyed with it. The sound of the waterfall came rushing into her ears. The smell of the wet earth and sweat. The feel of cool stone underneath her. And all around her, warmth. His warmth. Enveloping her.
Suddenly, there was a loud 'crack' and Alice was torn violently from her reverie. Shouting. Grunting. Gunshot. Scuffling. The dull wet 'thwack' of something hard hitting flesh. She saw a dark green flash. And there he was.
