This strenuous life I’ve chosen with my husband differs from my lifestyle in England. Outdoors work in the sun and fresh air invigorates my soul and my energy as gardening the greenhouse had back home. I have a new purpose here. Using my hands and working with my native friends, from whom I’ve learned much, keeps worries at bay in this foreign place.
Needing a break from the seeding, I stepped from the cornfield and strolled toward the edge of the field to rest my back against a maple tree. My eyes drifted toward Mingin, sawing a log near the cabin. Wicked thoughts I should not have for my husband’s nephew emerged in my mind. In his late twenties, he’s closer to my 19 years than William’s 40 years. The first day he arrived on our farmstead, I’d sensed that Mingin is an honest man, but wild and rugged from living with natives since his youth. I laid my head against the tree, fastened my eyes on his handsome features and his robust body as he sliced through the wood. I imagined his powerful arms around me, touching me as he had Iroquois women. Lost in thoughts of untamed lust, I didn’t notice him look my way.
Mingin caught my eyes and grinned. Abashed, I flushed and averted my gaze. I’ve sensed an attraction between us for days but cannot and will not allow affection for another so soon after my marriage. I must cease such musings, keep my desires at bay.
Desirous of companionship in my husband’s absence, I insisted Garrentha and Jawanda join me for tea. I was relieved they speak my language so well, assuming their fluency from Mingin’s tutelage. Jawanda speaks English as though her native language, and on occasion, a strange inflection slips through her usual accent. I believe she senses my wonder whenever she speaks. She’d pause as if she’d spoken too much. I know only a few words of their difficult Seneca language. My atrocious pronunciation is embarrassing, to say the least. Whenever attempting their dialect, I’d self-consciously place my fingers over my lips to disguise the awkward contortion of my mouth. I wonder how long it took Garrentha and Jawanda to grasp the English language. If Mingin was a mere boy when captured, how did he come to expand his vocabulary? Jawanda spoke of another white male captive, another settler who lived with their tribe. Perchance Mingin learned from him.
Jawanda arrived at the cabin with a parcel of raspberry leaves tea, her own concoction. I prepared tea in my custom and retrieved porcelain from the trunk beside the bed, china my mother gave me, yet extravagant in this plain log cabin.
Jawanda and Garrentha admired the fragile porcelain with cobalt blue trimmings as they partook of Bohea tea. The painted landscape of a river, willow trees, houses, boats and birds on the tea set mesmerized Garrentha. She thought I’d hand-painted Seneca Lake and the cabins on the porcelain. I laughed and told her the priceless pieces from China belonged to my mother. She wondered why the pieces are priceless. As best I could, I explained that it is porcelain of China’s Qianlong period and is prized for its craftsmanship. China fascinated her, and she asked many questions I couldn’t answer. She’s so inquisitive and eager to know of cultures outside her world. Later, I learned Mingin taught them not only to speak English but to read as well, and I promised to lend Garrentha a few of my books, classics written by British authors.
Garrentha marveled at the tea set, while I cut a few cubes from a loaf of sugar, a luxury I allow on rare occasions, as sugar is scarce in this place. Jars of maple syrup from recent tree saps fill the counter, but loaf sugar is more elegant for tea. I enjoyed Jawanda’s pleasant raspberry leaves, and for the first time in days, felt alive with the chatter of two women.
Though they are much older than my 19 years, I cannot tell their exact age. I presume Jawanda is 48 or 49. Garrentha maybe 29 or 30. William explained Iroquois women give birth in their early teens, which explains the age differences. But they appear younger than most women their ages.
Relaxed in their presence, I mentioned the growling grounds and worried when they glanced at each other. Garrentha hesitated and said a gǟ:’hasde’, ga’hásdeshä’, a strong wind, great power exists within the woods. She pointed just beyond the porch where Mystik stared the last eve. I believe she wanted to say more, but Jawanda’s expression arrested her words.
When Garrentha spied the bone choker I discovered on a stroll a few days past, she hastened from the chair toward the necklace, and demanded in a pitiful tone, “How did you get this?” I flinched with her brisk query and explained it lay near the maple tree. I brought the jewelry back to the cabin, believing one of them had lost it. She wiped her wet eyes and said the piece belonged to her deceased sister, Tekakwitha. Jawanda held it to her chest in sorrow and mumbled, “ke:awak.” Which I later learned from Garrentha means “my daughter”. I comforted them with tea and cake as I listened to stories of Tekakwitha’s death one fiery night.
As they spoke, I recalled the moment I happened upon the choker. Thunder roared from the lake, and the ground quivered. The woods stirred, and a woman’s figure moved away. Yet I can’t say whether it was sunbeams gleaming through boughs.
9, April 1793
April showers quickened winter’s thaw, releasing fragrant blossoms and earthy scents around the farmstead. The melody of bluebirds, a whinnying mare and a tongue click woke me at dawn. I peered outside my window at Mingin astride his trotting steed as he vanished downhill through dense fog. Garrentha explained that at morn Seneca warriors took dips in o:negowa:nëh, the big lake. It was a custom that Mingin shared with his adopted brothers and one he continues.
Often, I wonder how frightened he must have been as a child, his parents slaughtered before his eyes, kidnapped from his home. Yet he’s remained faithful to people who slew his blood. I assume since his capture as a child, his pain and spleen eased toward his adoptive native family. Though my William never displays emotions, I sense he begrudges his nephew’s Indian name and his allegiances to natives who murdered his brother.
I don’t know what overcame me, maybe spring’s enchantment or feverish curiosity about this remarkable fellow. In haste, I dressed and left the cabin, admiring waning stars in dark-blue heavens. I wondered why Mingin rode his horse to the lake as the distance is not great. I dared not get too close and hid between two trees, seeing his naked backside before he strode into the water. His steed, tied to a hollowed-out tree trunk, watched from the jagged shore.
Mingin submerged and remained steeped for more than a minute. I panicked, ran on to the rocky bank, and hesitated a moment. Alarmed, I called his name twice. The water did not stir. Fearing he’d drowned, I threw off my cape and waded into frigid water up to my waist.
Mingin sprang up with a loud wheeze. I gasped, fell backward into the water, and struggled up and out to the rocky shore, sopping wet and shivering. He swam out of the lake and called to me. Rocks clattered as he approached from behind, grasped my arm, and faced me. The only man I’d ever seen bare is my husband, whose soft corporal agent pales in comparison.
In awe of his glistening nudity under morrow skies, my eyes settled on a magnificent wolf tattoo across his torso until he spoke my name. I blushed with shame and looked at the ground. Desire claimed my senses. I cannot say I wanted to flee as I enjoyed the sight of him. When he asked if I sought him, I glanced up and nodded, but an answer failed me when he asked why.
His nearness excited me in ways my husband never has. Mingin lowered his face to mine and paused with a question in his eyes, an expression asking for permission. I did not resist, raised my fingers to his chest, and ran my fingers across his wolf. I lifted my lips to his swift, feverish kiss, a kiss unlike any I’ve ever experienced. He sucked on my lips as if they were a plum and beckoned my tongue like honey from a jar. I could have remained lost in the discovery of a proper kiss, unlike my husband’s sloppy mop of an attempt. I wondered how many native women Mingin kissed this way. My heart pounded as his hard body pressed into mine. For fear I’d lose control, I pulled away and flushed with shame at my wicked heart. I could not be here with my husband’s nephew. I turned, rushed from the shore through the woods, and dare not glance back at his comely face.
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I hastened toward the cabin sopping wet, realizing I’d left my cape near the lake. I stopped when the stable door opened to Garrentha and Jonathan. She ran across the yard as Jonathan watched her enter the small cottage. My suspicions of the two were right.
When their doors closed, I dashed inside, removed my drenched clothes and paced about the room, fearful of showing my face outside today. What have I done? My disgraced husband shall renounce me if he ever discovers the truth. I try to wipe images of Mingin from my mind, but his kiss lingered with me through the day into night, disturbing my sleep and dreams.
30, April 1793
Cornstalks pushed through the earth a week ago, and today we sowed sister beans beside it. As the corn, beans, and squash depend on each other for support, so do Garrentha, Jawanda, and I, my sisters in this place. We strengthen each other’s existence on the farmstead. Each day, I appreciate my new family and understand Mingin’s devotion to his adopted tribe, their way of life, which I respect.
Jawanda and I etched a square plot of land for a herb garden behind the cabin. With years of using herbaceous plants and roots in her village, she is knowledgeable about their medicinal properties. Once the plot produces its seeds, I expect to apply methods gained from this clever woman who is wise beyond this century.
After tending the crops, Jawanda, Garrentha and I prepared supper for the men. As dairy supplies and sugar are scarce, the dinner was not my custom. I made vegetables, bread, and a simple pound cake with the last pound of butter and sugar, which I hate to waste. Given it was the first meal I’d cooked for others besides my husband, I added a touch of brandy to spice up the cake. Jawanda and Garrentha cooked venison from deer Mingin caught yesterday.
We were one big family sharing dinner together. The hearth-heated cabin felt like a home for the first time since my arrival. Tangy sweet aromas pleased our nostrils, joyous rum-stimulated laughter and conversation tickled our ears. The plain timber table set with silverware and candles appeared refined as we feasted. Tears filled my eyes, realizing how much I’d missed the comfort of family back home, and happy to have found another.
Garrentha’s ingenuity as a candlemaker amazes me. She explained her people used pine tree bark for candles. But she prefers bayberries, which they pick when ripened during the autumn season, boil, and skim to fat for tallow. I prefer Garrentha’s pungent-scented bayberry and pine creations, though my steamer trunk overflows with wicks and tallow from Virginia.
I placed her molds in the pewter lanterns around the room and glass lanterns along the buffet which shone on our faces as we dined on venison, bread, soup, sweets, and plenty of rum and laughter. Mingin refused alcohol and drank cider. Later, I learned he believed alcohol a growing illness among the natives and did not wish to succumb to such addictions.
I glanced around the dinner table at my diverse family, two Africans, three natives, one Englishman who regards himself as Indian, and my soul overflowed with affection. From Jonathan and Garrentha’s amorous glances, I suspect they’re in love. Jawanda sat at the other end of the table, a clan’s mother watching over her family. Several times, she stole glances at Mingin and me, sensing the unease and attraction between us. I can’t contain my blush when he stares me in the eyes. I’ve kept my distance, yet he’s the first thought on my mind when I wake in the morning and the last image before I fall asleep at night. My desires for him won’t subside. How will I conceal these emotions from my husband when he returns?
2, May 1793
Footsteps sounded without the cabin and across the porch, drawing me from bed this morn. From the window, I saw Mingin place an item on the rail and mount his stallion from the step. When his horse trotted a few feet away, I opened the door. The cape I’d left in haste on the lake shore evoked images of a rousing kiss I’ve yearned for since our watery meeting. Mingin looked back. I smiled and waved as his steed descended the hillock.
When I stepped through the front door, the mysterious boom echoed from the lake. Mystik shot past me toward the woodlands. I called out several times, yet she scanted me. She never ignores my voice. What possessed her to run into the black woodlands?
Since we moved to the Village of Geneva, I’ve worried she’d escape into the treacherous woods and meet with hungry bears or wolves. Imagining such a grisly death spurred me to create a belled collar for her neck. A corky leather cuff fitted with a tiny gold bell that belonged to a doll I brought from England. Mystik resisted at first but grew accustomed to wearing it. Although she never ventures far from the cabin, the bell alerts me to her whereabouts.
When a knell came from the trees, I threw my cape over my shift, pulled on muddy boots left on the porch the previous night over my stockings, and tramped down the dewy knoll. The ground, moist and muddied from evening rain, squished as I moved toward the place Mystik stared most evenings. The jingle ceased. Mystik stood beside the blooming dogwood with shiny eyes in the dim morn. At the sound of my approach, she slinked across a footpath, descended the bluff to the forbidden grounds where Garrentha warned me never to trespass. Her caution bothered me at first. I replied sharply, “This property belongs to me, and I shall go anywhere I please.” The land, though in my husband’s name, was purchased with my endowment, although common law of coverture deems feme covert’s (married woman) money her husband’s. Later, remorseful, I apologized to Garrentha. She was just concerned for my safety.
The spot terrifies me but didn’t hinder me from searching for Mystik. I advanced with vigilance and came upon a craggy descent. Stones carved into steps wound through a steep, bosky path. Along the trail ran wooden rails made from beechwood trees with peculiar markings, undecipherable in morn’s light. The rush of water and Mystik’s meows reverberated through the woods. Fearing she had met with danger, I descended fast but with care not to slip on the slick stones. Mystik scampered toward a figure, a woman, Jawanda, drifting across a stone footbridge arching over a rapid stream. The trees moved, bending open to a watery door.
I gasped, slid forward on the slick stairs, drawn into a magnetic field. I dropped to my knees and held tight to the shaky wooden rail as the force pulled everything in the vicinity forward. Jawanda advanced through a watery veil. Mystik mewed, trying to turn back, yet the force dragged her ahead. I called out just as she vanished, and the doorway closed, stealing them before my eyes.
The dogwood trees and the atmosphere returned to normal, yet I did not move. Dazed, I sat on the stairs until the skies brightened, hoping it was a dream, and Jawanda and Mystik might reappear or were back in the cabins.
With haste, I raced up the stairway through the carved path, not stopping until I reached Jawanda’s cottage and knocked three times. Billy opened the door with a frown of concern. I ignored his imploring eyes and shouldered through the door, bidding, “Jawanda.” Disturbed from sleep, Garrentha emerged with hair freed from two braids, cascading ebony silk to her waist. She strode to the commons table with half-closed eyes and sat without a word.
As my gaze darted around the cabin, I sensed their eyes at my back, stopped in the middle of the room and asked aloud, “Where’s Jawanda?” When they didn’t respond, I described the strange events in the woods and demanded to know the truth. Neither appeared surprised nor worried for Jawanda’s safety. Billy groaned and sat beside Garrentha. As he’s always reticent, I turned to Garrentha for an explanation, stunned when Billy replied, “The footbridge verges ganö:kda’ ahóga: ën, time’s doorway, a place of no divide. A sacred ground hodisgë’ëgehda’, our warriors protected and are still on guard today. But it’s a danger for you.”
I fear they’re addlebrained or perhaps it is I who has lost my mind. Does such wizardry exist? Is the place bewitched? When I asked if I would ever see Mystik again, Billy said animals always find their way home. I swallowed the lump in my throat as tears welled in my eyes for Mystik. I love the stupid cat and imagined her at that instant air-drawn through time. Where might she end up? In a dangerous orb, defenseless, lost, dinner to predators?
My heart stopped when Jawanda walked through the door, dazed as if just awakened from sleep. Garrentha rushed over and seated her in the rocker near the fire. I could not believe the woman who entered a watery veil moments ago, sat before me dry, not a trickle on her skin. When I asked where she’d been, she replied nowhere. I spoke with a quick tongue, revealing I’d seen her on the footbridge. Her face remained stolid as she stated, “You saw Tessa, my future.” I didn’t understand and pressed on until she explained how souls travel in time through the gateway. Spirits fuse and become one, aware of each other’s worlds.
I feared she’d gone mad. Such things are impossible in this world. Life beyond death, reincarnation? Jawanda insisted I should never mention the place to anyone. I glanced around at three people I love as family, questioning their sanity even though I saw the passage with my own eyes. Deep within, I recognized the truth and vowed silence alike to my husband, William.
Although I’ve questioned my faith often, reincarnation is not a tenet of my Christian upbringing. Our souls do not dwell on this earth after we die. But I shall not refute their beliefs. It is not my place to impose my religion on natives, as missionaries and European settlers have. It’s obvious they uphold their people’s creed, not the colonist’s God.
Is not time travel wizardry? Souls cannot regress or advance through time, only Gods, no man has such power. But who created the portal? Unanswerable questions whelmed my mind.
5, May 1793
The vibrations, this magic tempts me, casting a spell on my mind I can’t dispel. The property’s enchanted with a native curse. I fear the townspeople whispered true, that anyone who claims the land shall fare ill. William never spoke of the former proprietors’ haste, leaving their newly built cabin, barns, and servants’ cottage. I ken they feared what exists toward the property’s fringes.
Keepers Of The Gate Page 21
