Greatest Change

Chapter Five

5. Look with Your Heart, and Not With Your Eyes

"Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye."

H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Clara awoke to find herself groaning as it woke her from her unconsciousness. The last thing she had remembered was that Native American, the one that assaulted her, walked up to her and knocked her out cold clean as a Harvard Boxer. It seemed to be probably out of revenge, seeing that she had knocked him down earlier, but still, they did not need her unconscious to follow their directions. Clara knew when to fight, and when not to fight. However, there was no conversation between her and the mother, probably because there was no dialect both could understand completely to have a small talk; but Clara figured the mother was hostile.

The intensity of the sun faded, as Clara could now tell that it must have been setting. Looking up slightly, she noticed the glorious sun setting on the water, the ripples curving the sun as it did its final dance of the day, however the sky started turning grey, a large storm possibly heading their way. To try and get a better view of the imminent clouds, Clara moved slightly, but not as far as she intended.

Her hands were bound to a horizontal and thick post, the rough and rigid animal skin was tearing into her soft skin as she twisted her wrist. It was tight, too tight perhaps as the tips of her fingers went numb and fuzzy, as if small particles of dust were dancing on it. Clara figured that she was now a captive of the tribe but she was also alive; alive and pretty healthy, except for a tight seal on her wrists, Clara had believed that everything from now would be easy. If they had not killed her by now, certainly she could prove her innocence and she would leave.

Hearing a lovely sound, Clara recognized the sweet musical note of a page being turned. It was composed beautifully, the scraping of thin paper sent marvelous shivers down Clara's spine. However, looking at the composer, she froze to find the genius behind the noise was no genius at all.

"Could ya not do that with my book?" Clara sneered slightly, but at the end held herself back. Did she have a reason to be mad at him? Sure, but there was no reason to unleash everything upon the poor Native.

"I had no aim of looking through your things, no matter how peculiar and interesting they may seem," Chayton muttered quite loudly, still leaving his coffee eyes on the pages in front of him. He was an intense reader, not wanting to be distracted when talking, but there was only one object that could remove his mind from the letters upon the pages of literacy. His voice was rather beautiful, part nonchalant yet full of curiosity.

Clara looked at him, quite confused, "I-I'm sorry? I do not quite understand what you are trying to tell me."

"This book is not yours," he explained quite quickly and shut his book, finally looking up at her. He had to admit the difficulty it was to not try and blush a dusty reddish-brown when he looked upon her beautiful face; light freckles were placed below her forest whirlpool eyes, as if the sandman had kissed her face gently, leaving the beautiful blemishes perfectly on her light peach skin. Her lips were tempting to him, he had never seen anything that could addict him within seconds upon viewing it, but the more he thought about the promise to his father, he was pained to think such a delicate flower as herself could be stained with blood, blood on his hands.

"Oh," she blushed sheepishly from her error, "my apologies then. May I ask what you are reading?"

"You may," he nodded, but stayed silent.

"Y-you," she started laughing slightly, "You do not have to wait for me to ask again. The question is just a more polite way of asking what you are reading."