by Sara Donati
Elizabeth glanced at Nathaniel, and he nodded. When she looked into the crowd again, Otter had disappeared.
“Is this your decision, then?” Stone-Splitter asked, his eyes moving between Elizabeth and Nathaniel. “Do you leave us?”
“As soon as we are ready to travel after the Strawberry Festival.”
“And what of Cat-Eater?” asked the sachem. “Will he travel with you?”
“No,” said Elizabeth before Nathaniel could speak. “He does not.”
“He wishes to speak to you.”
“We will resolve our business with Cat-Eater before we leave,” said Nathaniel.
Astonished, Elizabeth turned to him. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. She swallowed hard and settled back on her heels.
“First it looks as though you have business to settle between yourselves,” noted He-Who-Dreams.
Elizabeth went back to the Wolf longhouse on her own, because Nathaniel had more business to discuss with the men. She was preoccupied and unsettled by the conversation, and unsure of the answers she had given. Suddenly all the things she had taken for granted about herself and her purpose in coming to this new place were suspect. Torn by indignation and doubt simultaneously, she walked along lost her in thoughts, so that at first she did not hear the voice that called to her, and then she did not recognize it. And when she did, she suppressed both a groan and the strong urge to walk on as if she were deaf to her own name. But her training, even now, was too deeply ingrained for such behavior. Slightly light-headed, Elizabeth turned and found Richard sitting in the sun on a blanket before the Bear longhouse.
If she had been thinking of some short and less-than-friendly greeting, it died at the sight of him: this was a man with Richard Todd’s voice, but he looked like no one she had ever known.
If she had thought Nathaniel thin, Richard was skeletal. Minus the great mass of his red-gold beard his face was an unhealthy white. His strong nose stood out like the spine of a supine bird, his cheekbones like arched wings. His cheeks were sunken, and his lips cracked and scabbed.
Although she had not intended to, Elizabeth approached him, noting that he smelled of sweat and herbs but not of decay.
“My wounds heal, slowly,” he said, reading her mind, as well as the look in her eyes as they traveled over him. His voice was softer than she remembered. Perhaps the fever had broken his anger as it had broken him physically.
“Are they treating you well?” she asked.
“You and I have business to discuss,” he answered.
Elizabeth flushed suddenly with a particular memory. “Yes. Let us begin with the lie you told in yet another attempt to keep me from my husband.”
Richard waved a hand dismissively, and made a mulish mouth. “You are here, are you not? You promised to answer my charges in a court of law,” he said quietly.
She had begun to turn away, and now she turned back. “I did,” she said. “And I will. Before the sachem and his council, I will answer your charges.”
Richard’s pale cheeks flared suddenly. “I meant the court of the state of New-York.”
“But you did not specify that,” Elizabeth pointed out.
To her surprise, Richard smiled.
“As you wish it. We will lay this matter before Made-of-Bones and Two-Suns and She-Remembers.”
“Those are the clan mothers,” Elizabeth said, caught off guard and feeling somehow that she had been outmaneuvered, but not quite seeing how.
He spread out his hand, palm upward, to reveal a horrible wound, only half healed. Elizabeth looked at it because she could not make herself look away.
“Of course,” said Richard. “This is not a matter of war, but of the clans. It is for the clan mothers to decide. We will only go to the sachem if they cannot reach a conclusion.”
“Do you think they will tell me I picked the wrong husband?” Elizabeth asked, almost able to muster a smile at this idea. It was clear in what high regard the village held Nathaniel, and how well disposed they all were—men and women—toward him.
Richard leaned his head to one side, looking suddenly tired. “I know this. I know She-Remembers: for seven years I called her Elder Sister, and slept at her hearth. I know that Made-of-Bones is Sarah’s grandmother and held her very dear. I know that she told Sarah to put her husband aside, because he could not give her great-grandchildren to bring to the council fire.”
“And I know that Sarah refused this,” Elizabeth said, wishing that she could stop the shaking in her voice, but failing. “And that she did bear Nathaniel children, in the end.”
He raised one reddish eyebrow. “Then you know more than Nathaniel does himself. More than Sarah knew. The question is, who will they believe? You, the O’seronni woman, or Irtakohsaks. Who has returned home to them.”
“Against your will,” Elizabeth pointed out.
“I beg to differ,” he said slowly. “They have heard no such thoughts from me.”
“You are bluffing,” said Elizabeth.
“Let us wait and see,” Richard said, suddenly much paler. He swayed slightly as he rose, and grabbed onto the wall of the longhouse. Elizabeth watched without extending a hand as he limped toward the door.
She was still standing there when he had disappeared into the shadows.
XLI
More tired than she could remember being since that day on the trail when Otter had found her at Robbie’s, Elizabeth wanted only the sleeping platform she shared with Nathaniel. And Nathaniel. But he was still with Spotted-Fox and the others, and so she made her way back to the longhouse and crawled alone into the pile of bearskins, falling asleep even before she could consider removing her moccasins. She slept deeply, and woke staring at the endless rows of dried corn hung in the rafters, ravenously hungry.
She sat up, and found Splitting-Moon directly before her. They were alone in the longhouse with the exception of a very young child playing naked in the ashes of a cold fire, singing tunelessly to herself. Outside there was a game going on that seemed to involve the whole village. All except Splitting-Moon.
“Do they play baggataway?” Elizabeth asked, her mouth sticky with dryness.
Splitting-Moon nodded and handed her a bowl of water, which Elizabeth accepted gratefully. The younger woman began to turn away.
“Splitting-Moon.” Elizabeth used the woman’s Kahnyen’kehàka name. Just her name, but it was enough to make her pause. “Why do you watch me?”
For a moment Elizabeth feared the woman would not answer at all, thus closing the door between them for good. But a tremor moved her mouth, and a look of uncertainty came over her face.
“Because you have a magic that is new to me,” she said finally. “I would like to understand it.”
Elizabeth smiled, relieved. “I have no magic.”
“But you have bound Wolf-Running-Fast to you,” said Splitting-Moon.
“I married him,” Elizabeth said. “There is no magic in that, just—” She paused, lacking the right Kahnyen’kehàka word. “Bonne chance.”
The younger woman blinked at her, and then reaching out one finger, she touched Elizabeth’s face. With some effort, Elizabeth held herself very still while Splitting-Moon traced an invisible mask lightly around her eyes.
“You have bound him to you with his child,” said Splitting-Moon. “Your spirit is stronger than mine, stronger than Yewennahnotha’s was. Neither of us could hold on to his children.”
Elizabeth jerked with surprise; she felt her heartbeat leap and then settle again. Yewennahnotha’. Sarah. She heard herself laugh, a startled sound.
“Where do you get such an idea?” she asked, and then in response to Splitting-Moon’s blank look, she realized she had said this in English. In her agitation, the Mohawk would not come to her and so she repeated herself in French.
Splitting-Moon’s puzzlement cleared. She walked the small distance to her grandmother’s hearth to look through a large basket, and returned with a broken shard of mirror, only as big as El
izabeth’s palm. “You wear the mask,” she said, holding it up to her.
“I am not with child,” Elizabeth whispered, but even as she said this, her mind raced. She was seeing herself for the first time in weeks, her face unfamiliar with its sharper angles. Her skin was simply brown from long days out of doors, she told herself, even as she saw the faintly darker glimmering circling her eyes.
She shook her head, closed her eyes, and willed herself to recall the last time she had bled. She realized that she did not know the day of the week, or even what month it was. The days and weeks slipped away from her as she tried to count them. Five weeks? Six?
“I do not think I am with child,” Elizabeth corrected herself, and with the realization that this thing might be so, she knew it to be true. She sat back on her heels, and wrapped her arms around herself, bent forward in an arch. Her whole body flushed with terror and joy, and an overwhelming sense of power and simple wonder: that she should be capable of this thing that made her, once and for all time, Nathaniel’s wife.
“You did not know,” Splitting-Moon said.
“No,” said Elizabeth, bringing up her head to meet Splitting-Moon’s gaze. “I did not realize.” In the younger woman’s eyes she found sympathy and joy, and for those gifts she knew she would always be thankful.
“He will be pleased.”
There was a shout from the crowd outside, voices raised in a wild cheer. “Yes,” Elizabeth said, drawing a shaky breath. “He will be very pleased.”
Splitting-Moon nodded at her, and turned away.
With nowhere to be alone, Elizabeth lay down with her face to the wall, and put one palm flat on her lower belly. How could she have not noticed, how could she have overlooked what her own body tried to tell her? It was not the Kahnyen’kehàka food to blame for her upset stomach. She blushed at her own dull wits. Splitting-Moon, who had never borne a child, had seen what she should have known for herself.
What she had to make known to Nathaniel.
Nathaniel had looked in on Elizabeth, and finding her asleep, he had gone to watch the game. He stood on a rise not too close to the field, where he could keep one eye on the long-house, waiting for her to appear. His injury did not hurt him especially, except for the fact that it kept him out of the game. He liked the challenge of baggataway, the way it pushed him to his limits.
He drew a deep breath into his lungs. The tissues expanded creakily, but with less reluctance than had been the case even yesterday.
On the far side of the village the river ran south to join the great lake the French called Champlain. On its bank, a flash of movement caught Nathaniel’s eye. A single canoe pulling up. Visitors were not surprising: Kahnyen’kehàka would come from far away for the Strawberry Festival and there would be many more canoes before the afternoon was out. But Stone-Splitter was a cautious leader, and the sentry was already on his way to intercept the new arrivals.
Two men. By his size and shape, Nathaniel recognized one of them as Stands-Crooked, the scout who had first brought the news of Elizabeth’s approach. He had been gone from the village ever since, Nathaniel realized.
The other man was Kahnyen’kehàka from his dress, and bearing, and walk. Kahnyen’kehàka in the way he looked around himself, and the way he wore the musket slung on his back. Kahnyen’kehàka in everything except that he stood a head taller than any of them, and the scalp lock on his tattooed skull was not black, but red-gold.
Elizabeth at his elbow. Nathaniel turned to her.
“What is it?” she asked, seeing the look on his face. “Trouble?”
“Maybe,” he said. “I’m not sure.” He jerked his head in the direction of the river.
Her eyes were good, and her powers of observation better.
“He looks like Richard,” she said, her voice faltering.
The two men were approaching the playing field at a quick pace. There was a cry of welcome, and then another. Nathaniel heard the name being called out: Inon-Yahoti’.
“Who is that, Nathaniel?”
“Throws-Far,” he said. “I doubt he answers to Samuel Todd anymore.”
“Richard’s brother?” Elizabeth’s hand on his forearm, pressing hard. “His brother? I thought—Mr. Bennett said—”
“That he was dead? Died in battle? Well, that’s what they think down on the Mohawk.”
“You knew.”
“Of course I knew he was alive. The Kahnyen’kehàka keep track of each other, you see. He fought for the British during the war, and moved up farther north when things went bad.”
“My God,” said Elizabeth. “Richard’s brother. Does he know?”
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t know his brother was alive. But on the other hand, I doubt he’s expecting him to show up.” He thought for a moment. “Wait here,” he said, thinking of finding He-Who-Dreams, the best source of information among the men.
Her chin lifted. “I will not,” she said firmly. The furrow had appeared suddenly between her brows, and Nathaniel almost laughed out loud to see it.
“Then come along.” He sighed, taking up her hand.
“Wait.” Elizabeth glanced toward the crowds of people, and then back toward the longhouse. She swallowed nervously, unable to meet his eye.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I saw Richard,” she said in a rush.
“Ah.” Nathaniel put an arm around her shoulders, and bent his head to hers. “And how was that?”
“I told him that I would answer his charges here.”
“You look nervous enough about it,” he noted, smoothing a hand over her hair and tugging lightly on her plait. “You’ve got nothing to fear, Boots. We’ll deal with Todd, and the day after tomorrow we’ll be on our way home.”
Elizabeth looked up at him. “Do you believe that?”
“Aye,” he said. “I do.”
“But Nathaniel—” She paused, a muscle in her cheek twitching. “What does it mean, his brother coming here like this?”
“The sachem sent for him,” Nathaniel said. “Probably He-Who-Dreams put the idea in his head.”
“He-Who-Dreams takes a great deal of interest in Richard’s welfare,” Elizabeth noted. “I suppose he must have known him as a boy when he lived here.”
“That ain’t it exactly,” Nathaniel said with a sidelong glance. “It was He-Who-Dreams who led the raiding party that brought Richard and his brother to the village.”
This last piece of information seemed to have robbed Elizabeth of the powers of speech, a state Nathaniel knew would last only until she had chewed on it long enough to get the next issue fixed in her mind. He couldn’t predict what it would be, but he did know it would give him something to consider. Loving this woman is a far sight easier than keeping up with her, he thought. God grant me the energy.
He let a hand rest on the small of her back. “You realize, Boots,” he said, stopping to get her attention. “That I have never known anybody who makes me think so hard as you do.”
She closed one eye, considering. “Is that good or bad?”
“Oh, good,” he said, his hand sliding down the curve of her hip.
Her smile was a rare and especially beautiful thing these days. She put her hand over his where it rested on her hip. “That’s lovely to hear, Nathaniel. But right now—” She looked through the crowds around the baggataway game, which was just coming to an end. “Where has Richard’s brother gone?”
The sound of a single drum began, accompanied by one high, summoning voice.
“The Stick Beating Dance,” he said. “That’s it, then. It’s a curative rite, but I’ll wager Richard wouldn’t ask for it for himself. That’s why they sent for Throws-Far, because he can request it for his brother. How did his wounds look, when you saw him?”
“Festering, the one on his hand that I could see,” she said.
“So that makes sense, then.”
“I should be very curious to see Richard right now,” Elizabeth said.
“Well,
for once Todd ain’t in an obstinate frame of mind,” Nathaniel noted. “There he comes now.”
The whole village seemed eager to be a part of the dance, and so Elizabeth, who was tall for her sex but not so tall as the group of men who milled around the fire, could not fix Richard in her view. Eventually they worked their way to one side, where two singers had situated themselves on a bench. One of them was the canoemaker, who blinked at her solemnly as he beat on his water drum. The other singer had a rattle constructed out of a length of horn, stopped up at one end and fixed with a wooden handle at the other.
Two groups were forming on either side of the fire, of both men and women.
“I should join them,” Nathaniel said. “Will you—”
“Oh, no.” Elizabeth would have laughed out of nervousness, but the mood of the crowd was subdued and focused, and so she sent him on his way with a little wave of her hand.
When Nathaniel had disappeared into the dancers, she found herself trembling with relief. Elizabeth was thankful for this extra time to think about how to say to him what there was to say. The idea was still fresh and unfamiliar enough to make her jerk with surprise, and flush with a combination of pride and reserve. What did a lady say, beyond the terribly awkward phrases of the drawing room?
“Nothing,” Elizabeth muttered out loud to herself. A lady said nothing, had no real words for this condition, because it was one never discussed publicly. Announcements were made in a neutral voice over tea: Young Winslow and his lady are in hopeful expectation, her uncle might say.
The singing rose another notch, a wonderful, throaty chanting that was almost hypnotic in its rhythms. Nathaniel moved past in the line, his torso bent over as he danced, all his concentration there, on moving himself in those small, concise steps that sent He-Who-Dreams’ prayers off toward the heavens.
A bubble of nausea rose unexpectedly in Elizabeth’s throat and she swallowed it back down, taken by surprise. It was the crowd, she supposed, and the heat of the fire, and the excitement—still no clear view of Richard. But then aunt Merriweather would ask what she might be thinking, standing out in the evening breeze, in her delicate condition. Elizabeth had a sudden longing for her aunt, who would take her by the hands and look into her eyes and see what was there. I have had good news of you, she might say with a smile. Aunt Merriweather loved children excessively, but Elizabeth thought of her cousin Marianne at an assembly ball, her mouth in a small moue of disdain as she whispered behind her fan: “Imagine Jane Bingley dancing, and so obviously enceinte.”
