White Fire

No one came from the house. Even the stable boy had gone back to his duties at the stables

White Fire knew that in a matter of moments he would be with his son again. His heart cried out to hold him and to take him home. But most of all he wished to have things back as they were, that his sweet Mary would be at the cabin awaiting his and Michael’s swift return.

It tore at his heart to think back to those lonely moments at the grave. It was then that he knew just how important Mary had been to him. He felt guilty for thinking of how often he had taken her for granted. Yet without question, she had always been there for him.

And although she knew there was never any true passion between them, since their marriage was one more from friendship than true love, she had treated White Fire as though he were the only man on earth.

He knew that even when he did finally marry for love, he would never forget Mary’s generous, pure sweetness, and what a good mother she had been to their Michael.

Now in the shadows of the huge, stone house, White Fire dismounted and secured his horse’s reins to a hitching post. His knees strangely weak, his pulse racing, he took the three steps that led him to a small porch.

His fingers trembling, he slowly raised his hand toward the door, then doubled his hand into a tight fist and knocked.

Almost dizzy from his anxiousness to see his son again, White Fire watched the door, waiting for it to open.

And when it did, he was immediately thrust into the company of his son again as Michael stood there, looking up at him with wide, dark and curious eyes. White Fire swallowed a fast-growing lump in his throat.

He stared down at his son, now so grown up at the age of six. He was so flooded with emotions at this moment that he found it hard to move. It was as though his feet were frozen to the porch flooring. He had lost his ability to speak. Suddenly, Michael was whisked from his sight as a middle-aged, tight-lipped lady came and shoved him behind her as she glared up at White Fire from her short height.

“Who are you?” Maureen Greer asked, her voice filled with wariness. “What do you want?”

Still White Fire found it hard to speak. He stared down at the tiny woman, whose brown hair was drawn into a tight bun atop her head, and whose gingham dress, with its high collar, revealed a thick waist and flat breasts.

When Michael peeked from behind the lady, his eyes still innocently wide and filled with a strange sort of wonder, the spell was finally broken. It was at this moment that White Fire knew that his son did not recognize him. In three short years, he had forgotten his own father. He had surely, as well, forgotten his mother.

Yet White Fire reminded himself that he should not be so alarmed. Three years was a long time to a six-year-old.

“Sir, answer my questions, or leave,” Maureen snapped, her voice now loud and shrill.

“I have come for my son,” White Fire suddenly blurted out. He bent to a knee and held his arms out for Michael. “Michael, come and let me hold you. I have come to take you home.”

The color rushed from Maureen’s fleshy cheeks. Her lips parted in a loud gasp. She then whirled around, grabbed Michael by a hand, and turned to close the door.

White Fire jumped to his full height and placed a solid hand on the door, stopping her from closing it

“Michael, go t

o your room!” Maureen cried. “Hurry, son. This man means you harm!”

“Michael, I am your true father,” White Fire said as Michael turned to run toward the spiral staircase at the far end of the corridor. “I would never harm you.”

Michael stopped and turned slowly around. He again gazed at White Fire.

Maureen stepped slowly away from White Fire. “I thought you were dead,” she said, a sob lodging in her throat.

“So did everyone else,” he said somberly. “But as you can see, I am here, alive, and most certainly Michael’s father.”

He gazed at Michael as the child inched toward him. Now that he had made this woman believe he was who he was, and his heart was no longer pounding, he found himself horrified at how this woman had clothed his son. Michael was dressed in a black velvet suit with a deep lace collar, with black, patent-leather shoes, his raven-black hair was in long sausage curls which rested on his shoulders. His face was so pale, White Fire doubted it was scarcely ever touched by the warm rays of the sun.

It made his heart sink to see his son look so sissified. Like his father, he should be a child who was as one with nature.

“I think we need to have a talk,” Maureen said, stepping back and placing a possessive hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Come with me into my parlor.”

Michael clung to her skirt as he went with her into the parlor.

White Fire followed closely, his eyes never leaving his son, his own arms aching from having thus far been denied him. He now knew that this was not going to be as easy as just coming and claiming Michael as his. It was obvious that the child had close ties with his adoptive family.

Michael’s shying from him cut deeply into White Fire’s heart. Yet he knew that in time this would change. He would not give up on having his child back with him.