Original Death amoca-3

by Eliot Pattison

  Ishmael broke the spell. The boy stepped up to a keg and lifted a coin. “They are very heavy,” he said to Conawago, “and you can’t eat them.”

  For the first time in weeks, Duncan saw a smile on his friend’s face. The old Nipmuc embraced the boy.

  “I think,” Duncan said, “we should take these to those who paid the greatest price.”

  They stacked the open kegs near the three scaffolds, on the bluff where the hell dog had fallen with the schoolmaster. Duncan listened reverently as Adanahoe spoke in her native tongue to explain to the dead how justice had been dealt to the Revelator and the poet of death.

  When she finished, she looked at Duncan expectantly. He was not sure where the words came from, but he knew their rightness as soon as he spoke. “The Revelator lied when he spoke of murders on the other side,” he explained. “But it was the dreams of the Council who told us it was a lean and hungry time on the other side. When I was young, we would bury the dead with coins so they could buy food along the long path to the spirit world. The ghosts here may have had a few corncakes, but that would never be enough to see them all the way.”

  Conawago, as always, instantly understood. He lifted a shilling from a keg and handed it to him.

  “This,” Duncan said, extending the coin for all to see, “buys our friends a kettle of pumpkin stew.” He threw it in a long arc over the cliff, far out into the river. The splash stirred the others out of their spell.

  “We are on the island of the starving ghosts,” Kass reminded them, then she shouted out Sagatchie’s name and threw another coin into the water far below.

  Tushcona joined in, then Ishmael, and Hetty, and soon all the company was throwing coins, calling out names of dead they had known, including those of Bethel Church. They emptied one keg, then another. Woolford energetically lifted a full keg and dumped it over the side. Birds gathered overhead, not diving, but attentively watching. Ishmael pointed out an otter frolicking among the ripples. One keg followed another, emptied now by the Iroquois children and elders. For the first time Duncan saw laughter on the faces of the Iroquois, young and old, as they gave up the king’s coins, one silver splash at a time, to the river that never ended.

  Epilogue

  Mrs. Margaret Eldridge was a Welsh widow whose family had been lost in the North, Duncan explained when they reached Edentown. Hetty looked every bit the part in her simple blue dress, her hair combed and pinned at the back. They had paused in Albany during their long return journey, where Mr. Forsey had readily agreed to provide several dresses for his former seamstress. His generosity, Duncan knew, in no small part reflected the relief Forsey and his neighbors had felt when the true identity of their party was revealed.

  They had caused quite a stir at the outskirts of Albany. Sentinels on the wall of the fort had raced for their officers. Townspeople had taken one look at their party and shut themselves in their houses. A church bell rang in alarm. Only by Woolford running forward to explain the apparent invasion did the army call off its confrontation.

  Their company had lingered a week at Onondaga Castle in condolence ceremonies for the heroes who now stood perpetual watch at the Isle of the Ghosts. On their last night at the Haudenosaunee capital, Adanahoe had called for a celebration. The old matriarch had waxed eloquent about the successful return of the children, the bravery of those who had died at Bethel Church, the reconciliation with the northern Mohawks, even Duncan’s discovery of his protector spirit. Afterwards the Council had insisted on dispatching an honor guard of two dozen warriors to escort Duncan, Conawago, Ishmael, Kass, and Hetty to the Hudson. The Iroquois, wearing amused expressions, had filed into Albany between ranks of nervous soldiers.

  When they finally emerged from the forest onto the open lands of Edentown, Sarah Ramsey ran barefoot from the field where she had been harvesting maize. She paused before him, examining him from head to toe as she pushed back her auburn curls, then rushed forward for a long, silent embrace before warmly introducing herself to Hetty and Ishmael. A smile slowly grew on the boy’s face as he took in the sturdy stables, the stonewalled smithy, and the simple cabins. Edentown, Duncan realized, was not unlike Bethel Church. The young Nipmuc shyly tugged at Conawago’s arm and asked to go see the great oxen that worked the fields.

  “Ishmael would fit well in our little school,” Sarah said to Duncan as she sat with him on the porch that evening. They had enjoyed a simple but joyful supper on a table set up outside the stone great house.

  “He could help the younger ones,” she added. As town proprietress she had decreed that every student learn both English and a tribal tongue.

  “I would like that,” Duncan replied. “Conawago would like that.”

  “The children will be eager to hear Ishmael speak about the heroes of the spirit war.”

  “Spirit war?”

  “Do not be so modest, Duncan McCallum,” she chided. “The tale is for all to see on the kitchen table.”

  When Sarah saw the confusion on his face, she took his hand and led him into the kitchen. Kass sat at the table speaking in the tone of one of the Council storytellers to a spellbound gathering of settlers, both tribal and European. Before her was a broad doeskin of the kind Duncan had seen on the walls of the Council lodge, one of the chronicles of historic events in the centuries-long saga of the Haudenosaunee. Except Duncan recognized the scenes painted on this one. The figures were small, for there were a dozen separate panels-a church, a cave, a dog, a prisoner bound to a post, a circle of people listening to an orator, a fortress, a ship, an island in a river, a city, a battle between warriors, ships crashing into rocks, and three grave scaffolds with a spirit gate over them.

  “The Council said it should be shown to your people first,” Kass explained to Duncan. “Then I am to take it to every Haudenosaunee town so the tale lives in the hearts of all the Iroquois. By the time I am done, I will have Sagatchie’s son with me.”

  It was their skin, their chronicle, the tale of their quest to find the truth and rescue the lost children. Duncan looked up after studying it to see Sarah and Conawago smiling at him. Your people, Kass had said.

  Kass was pointing to the crashing ships now. “Then on the shore of the great river, the Scottish warrior at last discovered who he was, and his protector spirit showed him the way to save hundreds of lives.”

  It was deep in the night when their gathering broke up. Through his fatigue, Duncan became aware of Sarah and Hetty speaking in the tongue of the Iroquois on stools by the smoldering hearth. Hetty had been uncomfortable being thrust among so many strangers, but Sarah’s easygoing nature had won her over. One ghostwalker, orphan of the tribes, had recognized another.

  He found Conawago on the front porch, looking up at the moon beside a pile of blankets. Sarah knew they always had trouble adjusting to beds after weeks of sleeping under the stars. Conawago motioned him toward the stable where Ishmael already slept on a mound of straw, and they bedded down beside the boy.

  Duncan woke to the sound of a hammer ringing on iron in the smithy. The day was already hours old. He sat up to find Sarah on a stool, watching him with the fragile smile he knew so well. He accepted the mug of tea she extended then looked about. She spoke before he could ask where his companions were.

  “Ishmael had a dream, Duncan,” Sarah announced.

  His grin faded. He darted to the entry, looking anxiously up and down the settlement’s only road.

  Sarah appeared at his side, took his hand, and silently led him to the schoolhouse where as a fearful ghostwalker she had once been Duncan’s student. The classroom was empty. A piece of heavy paper lay on the instructor’s table, folded into a letter with Duncan’s name inscribed in Conawago’s elegant hand. With a sinking heart he settled into the chair and opened it.

  I found Ishmael outside after midnight staring at the moon. He told me he had the same dream the past five nights. Hickory John was shivering on his scaffold. He told the boy he needed one of the old robes from the Nipmuc hearths
. I explained to Ishmael that his grandfather meant a buffalo robe, but that I had not seen one for many years. Then we saw a shooting star in the western sky.

  I am taking the boy west, Duncan. I mean to show him the great spirit mounds in the Ohio country and keep going west until we find buffalo. We will make a robe and carry it to Towantha on his scaffold above Bethel Church, then find a safe place to hide the flint knife of our people. I will write in two or three months if I can.

  Duncan felt a terrible emptiness in his chest. It was a long time before he looked up. Sarah was sitting at the desk where she had been a student. “He told me,” she said.

  “The war,” he said, his voice cracking. “The hostile tribes. The winter. The Mississippi.” There were so many hardships, so many dangers. “I may never see him again.”

  “He had to do it, Duncan. He needs the time with the boy. The boy needs the time with him. The last two Nipmucs.” She looked over his shoulder, and he turned. On the piece of slate on the wall, Ishmael had written a verse. We know what we are, it said, but know not what we may be. On the way to Albany Woolford had taught the boy Shakespeare.

  “There was one more thing, Duncan,” Sarah continued. “As he left, Conawago said Hetty could manage the household.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Conawago said I must give you this. He said to apologize to you for holding them back from the river.” She stood and upended a pouch of heavy coins on the table. “Eight pounds exactly.”

  “Eight pounds,” he said absently, then he hesitated and picked up a coin. A smile slowly broke through his melancholy. Conawago was still looking after Duncan. “Hetty can manage the household,” he repeated.

  Sarah did not understand, but she returned his smile.

  “There are some Nipmuc travel songs I shall teach you,” Duncan said as he rose.

  Her smile grew wider.

  “You and I are going to Nazareth, in Pennsylvania,” he explained, and he took Sarah’s hand. “There was another warrior who was a hero in the spirit war. We are going to buy a farm for his widow.”

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-eb4941-1b97-f741-729f-42e0-3433-862846

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 11.10.2013

  Created using: calibre 0.9.36, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Eliot Pattison

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