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The Queen’s head was tilted upward, her eyes to the afternoon sun. For a moment—just a moment—she dropped her eyes toward me. I stood transfixed. I remembered seeing hatred in a brave’s eyes, but how much more poignant were these eyes filled with grief. She does not mourn her own death, but that of her children, I thought. In that brief melding of gazes, we were neither white nor red, English nor Paspahegh. We were but two mothers. Would that I knew a native word for grief or sorrow, but, alas, I did not. Yet I understood a mother’s heart. As Annie Laydon said, the men folk fight and the women folk bear the brunt. This woman had borne the burden of war between her people and my own and had paid the highest price any mother can pay—her children. My eyes filled with tears for her loss, and for the loss of all the children and all the mothers from these wars. No, I had no word for sorrow, but I lifted my fist to my heart and let the tear run down my cheek. Your sorrow, my sorrow. We are both women, and we are both mothers. In return, she gave the barest of nods, an acknowledgement. Yes, it said, thank you. She had allowed me to share her concealed grief. She then turned her eyes upward to the sun once more—lest any soldier think her afraid or that she was any less warrior than they themselves were. I knew she would not cry out upon her death—natives never did. |
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Greyfox Press 324 pages |
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