Episode 3

 It was over a month before Phee was able to see the journal again. Her Aunt Eugenia took ill with pneumonia, and it was something of a miracle she survived it. She remained in her bedchamber, drapes tightly drawn. The hope was that the dark would aid her to sleep, and there was little else anyone could do except bring her tea and soup and have her put her head over a bowl of steaming water with eucalyptus.

Phee desired to read the journal on her own, without supervision, but the dowager hid it someplace. The girl looked for it once, but her aunt awakened.

“Ophelia,” she whispered with a concerning rasp, “we will read again…soon.” The elderly woman coughed and gasped so piteously for breath the younger one found herself gulping air.

“There, there, Aunt. Of course, we will.” Phee was uncertain of the truth of what she had just uttered. The interchange shamed her, especially since she dared to consider taking the journal after her aunt’s death. She shuddered that she had entertained such a thought. She closed her eyes before squeezing Aunt Eugenia’s hand and turned, scurrying out of the room so that her tears would remain unnoticed.

But the old lady eventually gained in strength, and one morning Phee found her auntie propped up in bed and reading the volume she coveted.

“Ophelia,” she croaked just loudly enough for the girl to hear her a few feet away, “shall we resume?” Though Phee was about to leave for the butchery, she drew up a chair instead. She knew there would be at least one more scene involving Maryanne and the enigmatic chieftain.

Oh! She wished she had read everything before bringing the volume to her great aunt. But the one passage she initially read was enough to want so much more. She wondered if, given Miss Eugenia’s weakened state, she would be able to explain any passage she omitted. But she discovered the bookmark was exactly where she left it. This time, there was no second bookmark.

Phee began.

A day after I left the healer’s place where I encountered the chief, a woman appeared at our door. She was a stunning, tall lady. Her thick, wavy hair was a light brown with flecks of gold which fell in ringlets to her waist. A leather bracelet woven with cerulean beads was on her left wrist.

From neckline to knees was a tawny-colored deerskin tunic, fringed from her shoulders to her elbows. Gathering the garment at the waist was a dark belt ornamented with silver and turquoise beads woven in patterns resembling heavenly bodies. I could discern a sun, some stars, and a crescent moon. She wore brown sandals intertwined with blue glass beads.

She resembled a goddess, particularly since the sun’s rays played about her silhouette.

Her skin was luminous, not leathery as are many long exposed to the sun. Given her features, I believe she is of full European origin, although her Creek clothing might imply she is a half-breed.

“Hello,” she began. “I am Dancing Star, but you may be more comfortable to call me by my birth name of Zora. I am seeking Miss Maryanne Jones.” Hearing her speak, I heard music in her voice, in the low alto range. I came to the door, and my sister receded.

 “I am Miss Jones. Miss Zora…?”

“Just Zora is fine,” she replied.

Normally, I would not invite in a stranger whose business I did not know. But she felt trustworthy.

“Please come to the sitting-room,” I said, too hastily, because I noticed mud caked her feet. Details of her elegant sandals poked through. Seeing my glance, she declined to enter. She handed me a compact leather package.

“I am returning a bauble with which I do not believe your family intended to part.”

Her eyes were golden, of a hue almost the same as my hazel ones become sometimes, but far more enthralling. Her unlined yet golden skin told me she neared the same age as my own.

I have not before stared in such a way at a woman. Her story must be fascinating, and I felt drawn to her.

I invited Zora to sit with me under the apple tree. We settled on a spot bereft of rotten fruit. I squinted from the sun peeking through the branches.

The lovely creature continued in her entrancing voice. “I am trying to decide if you are more curious about why I am returning your gift, or if you are wondering who I am.”

Her refreshing candor enchanted and astounded me, so unusual in the female sort.

“I suppose I wish to know both,” I responded with a smile. She gave me a crooked smirk, conveying, I hope, a delight she has found someone of more than ordinary interest.

“You have met Chief Half-Moon and his first wife, Calming-Waters.”

I leaned forward and clasped my hands over my knees. I was rapt. “Indeed. I have.”

“I am Chief Half-Moon’s second wife.”

This revelation explained plenty.

I thought of her as a Creek Queen, and one who seemed to be more of an equal to the chief than the first wife. I felt an immediate connection the moment she entered my view. It was as though we have been acquainted a very long while. I believe I might have found my first friend in the wilderness.

“I must rest now, Ophelia.”

Miss Eugenia still had a way to go in her recovery, and Phee did not wish to tax her aunt further. She was frankly surprised how far she was able to read this time.

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