Wild Whispers

But his hand was too large. His hold was too tight. There was no way she could get free.

Her eyes wild, Little Sparrow scanned the crowd for Good Bear. She had been foolish to slip away from him. She was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her entire life.

She was taken to a dark and dreary tent.

John Shelton stood her on a chair and clasped hard onto her arms.

“Don’t be afraid,” John said, his eyes imploring her. “I’m not going to harm you.” He held her with one hand, while with his other he caressed her soft, copper face with his thumb. “Now tell me your name. Friends should know each other’s names. Mine is John. Yours is . . . ?”

Although the lamplight was dim, Little Sparrow managed to read his lips.

When she tried to speak and couldn’t, he realized that she was a “mute.” He felt even more fortunate to have found her wandering alone, without parents to look after her.

Being a mute, she would never be able to tell anyone who was responsible for her abduction, or where, or when.

In her he had found himself a new “sideshow.” He would present this child to the public as a “savage” who was uncivilized, who had never learned how to talk.

He was extremely excited about having her; the many prospects of how he could use her.

There were so many ways to use her.

Yes, so . . . many . . . !

Knowing the importance of getting far away from San Carlos as quickly as possible, so that no one could come and claim this little “jewel” of a child, John took Little Sparrow to a tent where a middle-aged colored lady sat in a rocker, mending socks.

“Magnolia Jane, keep an eye on this girl until I return,” John said, releasing Little Sparrow.

So glad to be away from the man, Little Sparrow ran to the woman and clung to her, her eyes wild as she watched John leave.

Magnolia Jane Blankenship, long past being pretty and shapely enough to draw a crowd with her unique style of belly dancing, sensed the child’s fear. She had learned long ago never to question John’s motives for anything he did. She feared him more than she had ever feared anyone. His cruel streak ran long and deep. She bore scars on her back that had been placed there by the tongue of John Shelton’s whip.

Magnolia Jane laid her sewing aside and picked up Little Sparrow and sat her on her lap. Slowly she rocked her back and forth.

“Child, it’s going to be all right,” Magnolia Jane said, trying to reassure Little Sparrow, yet fearing, herself, the fate of the child. She was there to stay, that was for sure.

But for what? What cruel task would John give her?

Little Sparrow snuggled against Magnolia’s large bosom as tears streamed across her tiny copper cheeks. She watched the tent entrance, hoping and praying that she would be rescued.

In her heart she cried out for her brother Fire Thunder.

John hurried from tent to tent and told everyone they were leaving. Even if they had to return money for tickets already paid for, do it. It was imperative that they leave this town. They weren’t that far from their next stop. They would just stay a day longer there.

Kaylene rushed to her father. “Why are we leaving?” she asked, breathless as she followed him as he yanked stakes from the ground so the tents could be dismantled.

When her father did not respond, Kaylene placed a hand on one of his, stopping him from taking up another stake

. “Father, please tell me what’s happened,” she asked, finally getting his attention. “We’ve never left so quickly from a town. Especially not this one. Didn’t you see the crowd of people? And to give money back? That isn’t like you, Father, to give back any money.”

Kaylene’s mother came and stood beside her, her eyes filled with worry. “John, what’s happened?” she asked, wringing her hands.

John took Kaylene and her mother each by an elbow and led them aside, away from the commotion, and the others. “We’re leaving because we have a runaway child that came to me, begging to stay with our carnival,” he said, looking constantly over his shoulder. “I took pity on the child and gave her permission to stay. Who is to say whether or not she is an abused child, fleeing the clutches of some evil relative?”

“Did she tell you that?” Kaylene asked, her heart going out to any child in trouble.

“Well, not exactly. She can’t talk,” John said stiffly. “She’s a deaf mute.”

“A deaf mute?” Kaylene said, her voice drawn. Her spine stiffened. “Father, if she is deaf, and she can’t speak, how could she beg you to let her stay with us?”