The drums beat, faster and faster.

They remind me of the ones we used to play at home under the huge oak tree, after the cotton harvest was over. But they're different: they penetrate my ears, my chest. My heart.

The young men already completed their initiation rite; they challenged each other in pairs with wooden spears, tied together by one foot. They howled like coyotes, becoming adults.

Now it's the girls' turn: they file out, bare-breasted and with flowers in their hair. The music is blaring, and they follow it, dancing as one.

Our Chinook interpreter explained to the captain that this is the only night of their lives when they can choose a man. They can lie together in the forest, return at dawn as adults, and become fully integrated into the tribe.

The others can't do anything else but stare at them, just idiot white people: they giggle while drinking whiskey, making vulgar jokes that the natives will never understand.

Instead, I follow the dance distractedly: as always, I'm alert, standing beside the captain. Servants aren't allowed to sit with the others; I must be ready to accommodate any need he might have.

Then my breathing stops.

I see her at the end of the line, small and agile. The dance, the captain, my companions no longer exist.

She dances slowly, like a lynx lying in wait, ready to attack. While the others girls choose, throwing their flower wreath around the boys' necks, her steps carry her to the front of our group.

She continues for a long time, enthralled by the music, while all the others catch their companion. I sense something's wrong; I notice nervous glances among the natives.

Before I can even understand, she throws the wreath around my neck and takes me by the hand.

I don't know what to do, I stare at her in disbelief, then at the captain.

She's pulling me. We run away.

The path is long and dangerous. My bare feet slip in the mud. I manage not to fall only thanks to the light of the full moon.

Sometimes she turns to me, laughing.

Like that cold morning, when I met her on the beach. I was gathering firewood, and she appeared from the forest like a spirit, holding a bouquet of white flowers with more in her hair. I had never seen anything more beautiful.

We have walked together, continuing our occupations. We spoke completely different languages, but we communicated, nonetheless. Only two things were clear to me: her name was Ayiana, and to her people she was a slave, just like me.

Now she stops, pushing me against a tree. She's no longer laughing; in fact, she's serious, showing her white teeth. She kisses me for a long time on tiptoe, scratching my back with her nails.

I gasp as I shift positions, lifting her up with her back against the hard bark. I bury my face between her breasts, which I want to devour.

She screams like an animal, but not in pain. She wants me.

The damp ferns become our bed. I tear off her leather clothes, stopping to admire the perfection of her curves. Then our bodies move together, reaching heights of ecstasy where time no longer exists.

Until we hear the hunters' shouts, the dogs barking.

I sit waiting on a fallen log.

Months later, my missing hand still itches: the doctor had to cut it off to stop the infection. I defended Ayiana with my bare hands, suffocating two Chinooks in the mud before they could stop me with the arrows. One pinned me to the same tree where I'd kissed her.

From the promontory on the river, I see the expedition sailing up the Columbia River. They will follow it back to the Missouri, to reach St. Louis. As always, the captain leads from the first raft.

He had to give up barrels of whiskey and hundreds of skins to let me go. After all, a one-armed slave is useless.

“Ayiana, we have to go.” I tell her softly.

Her scarred face is even more beautiful than before. She looks at me with love, taking my hand: she places it on her belly, and I feel the little one kicking hard.

She nods, smiling. We head into the forest, toward our new life.