Others here in the new colony had earned that distinction, and would carry it with them to their graves. But Parley was different. He was a man apart. A man of keen observation and penetrating intellect. He should be better than this.
Glancing about, Parley searched for the animal that had been so recently divested of its internal organs. Not out of any sense of foreboding. Of course not. It only made sense to dispose of the body, so as not to attract any predators.
Predators. A sudden laugh burst out of Parley as he moved away from the vulture to find the dead creature. In January, Peter Browne and John Goodman had gotten lost in the forest after their dogs had rushed off in pursuit of a hind. After a long search for them, all had thought them captured by Indians, and when they did not return that night, most had been sure of their deaths.
But upon the morrow they had arrived, cold and bedraggled, with tales of lions chasing them in the forests. And while no small amount of merriment had been had at their expense, few in Plymouth spent much time alone in the woods.
A crack sounded nearby, and Parley froze, his laughter dying on his lips. It had just been the sound of a tree cracking in the cold. That was all. But the sudden chill that had invaded his heart belied his insistence on his lack of fear.
Rounding a bend in the path back toward the colony along which Parley trudged, he spied a series of bushes with broken branches, denoting some sort of struggle. He moved off the path and into the underbrush, pushing his way past the grasping limbs of plants now dead or sleeping with the winter cold. They snagged and pulled at his clothes, forcing him to reconsider his actions, until he stumbled across a small clearing in the underbrush.
There, directly in front of him, was what was left of Thomas Rogers, one of the congregation of the Saints. His abdominal cavity lay exposed to the elements, having been ripped open.
And standing above the body was an Indian.
Parley froze, but not before the native looked up, piercing him with a penetrating gaze. Parley’s heart beat with a rapid tattoo that spoke of sudden death at the hands of this Indian brave. While the conflicts with the natives had been without casualty so far, it appeared the uneasy truce had abruptly ended.
But right before Parley could attempt to flee, the man raised a hand toward him, flat palm out. A gesture asking him to hold. To reserve judgment.
To listen.
“I did not kill your companion,” the native said in near-flawless English. Parley felt his shock increase in an exponential fashion. His only experience to date with an English-speaking Indian had been with the man who had strolled into their midst two days ago, and his English had been broken. At best.
Parley found his voice. “How am I to believe you?”
The Indian’s mouth twitched upward. “The noise you made in your approach was that of a herd of buffalo stampeding through the forest. If I had wished to be unseen by you, I would remain so.”
The man made a fair point. Parley felt his shoulders move down, releasing the tension he had not realized he had been holding there.
But if this Indian were not responsible for the death, then what had occurred?
Thomas had not been sick.
This brought the total number of deaths to nineteen. Four more since February began.
Many of the men had been brought low with the illnesses that continued to course though the Company. Parley had fought and fought with Dr. Heale, as well as with Miles Standish, John Carter, William Brewster, and of course, Pastor Job Wilkes. None could see the danger of the continued close-quartered living space aboard the Mayflower.
The most vexing of the arguments had come from Pastor Wilkes. His continual droning of we must be one in Christ Jesus had begun to bore a hole through Parley’s skull. There was little doubt in Parley’s mind that Christ’s admonition for His followers to be one was figurative.
And the man’s attitude toward the dead of their party was like a hot iron poker in Parley’s side. It was his assertion that it was God’s will that all those men, women and children had succumbed to illness. That might not have troubled Parley too terribly, were it not for the fact that Pastor Wilkes attributed it to their sin. Had they been better Christians, the man asserted, they would not have been allowed to pass from this world in such a manner.
Everything about the man troubled Parley. His piety. His rigid ideas of what constituted righteousness. His lack of compassion.
Yet the daughter…
Remembrance. Remmie. Her spoken words mirrored the Pastor’s, in kind if not in tone. But there was something in that gentle face that spoke to depths unplumbed. She were not a typical beauty, but there was that about her that drew Parley to her. He shook his head, clearing out the distraction.
That the deaths continued unabated was unsurprising, considering their general state upon arriving in the New World, as well as the harshness of the winter and the cramped living conditions on the ship. But the numbers were ever increasing.
And, again, Thomas had not been numbered amongst the ill.
Nodding to the native to acknowledge the trust Parley was exhibiting toward him, Parley moved in closer, hoping through observation to ascertain what had occurred to the good man. For Thomas had been good. Kind. Gentle. What Parley imagined Christ-like behavior was meant to be.
This was a rough area. It was possible that Thomas had taken a fall in a nearby tree and been dragged into the clearing by wild animals. That was a plausible theory that, if true, should reveal tangible evidence upon the body. A broken spinal column, perhaps, or a vital injury unobscured by the ravaging of the animals.
As he stood over the corpse of Thomas Rogers, Parley caught sight of the man’s eyes. Closed. A sudden impulse moved Parley in close, pulling back the eyelids to observe the eyes underneath.
Spots of blood, underneath the surface of the whites.
“Why do you hide that you are a medicine man?” asked the Indian.
Parley straightened, shock washing over his features before he could compose himself. He met the man’s gaze, and was once again struck by how penetrating it was. Parley felt exposed before the native, in way that he had never before experienced.
He found he could not lie to this man.
“How did you know?”
The tall native did not answer him directly. Rather, he pointed out to the land surrounding them, sweeping his arm in a half circle that included the entire shoreline of the bay.
“This is my home.”
Parley was overcome with a sudden sense of being an outsider. An interloper and intruder upon territory that was sacred. He felt the blood rush to his face, shame hot in his breast. How odd. Shame was a feeling with which Parley had little experience. His rejection of the narrow strictures of the times in which he lived had stripped him of those unhelpful moralistic shackles long ago.
And yet now the sensation shone bright within him, illuminating parts of his soul he would prefer to keep hidden. Once again, the feeling of vulnerability before this native washed over him, and there was only one response he could give.
“I am sorry.”
The man crossed an arm across his breast, inclining his head in a regal gesture. The man had a bearing and presence about him that rivaled that of kings or queens. But with that sense of self were none of the self-absorption that could so often accompany those of noble birth. Here was a man who knew who he was.
It were powerful to behold.
Once more, the native spoke, pointing to his own chest. “I am Tisquantum. You will call me Squanto, as you are English.”
A sense of stubborn pride arose within Parley, causing him to reject the easy path the man laid out for him. He answered with a touch more heat than he intended.
“If you are… Tis… Tiskwa…”
“Tisquantum,” the man prompted with a knowing smile.
“Yes, Tisquantum.” Parley cleared his throat, ridding himself of the embarrassment he felt. “Well, if you call yourself Tisquantum, then that is what I will c
all you as well, regardless of what my countrymen choose.”
A note of respect seemed to tinge Tisquantum’s smile as he inclined his head once more. But as he arose, his face grew serious.
“I have watched your people since you came into the Land.”
Parley was not certain how he heard the capital letter in Land, but it was clear that it was there. This area was of enormous importance to this Indian. Tisquantum.
“I hope we have not behaved too poorly,” Parley ventured with a wry grin.
Tisquantum did not return the expression. His face remained grave as he spoke once more.
“Your… countrymen… trod upon the graves of my people. They stole maize that was intended for the journey of their souls.”
The corn that Miles Standish had brought back from his exploration. Parley cringed, realizing how much of a violation that must have been.
“Once more, I am sorry.”
Tisquantum waved aside the apology. “I have watched. You are good men. You kill only when you are hungry, and you use all of the beasts you have slain. That is good. But I have seen what you do with the fallen of your people.”
“What? Our burials up on the hill?”
The man shook his head in negation. “I have seen what you do.”
Parley froze, the hot flush of shame sweeping through him once more. He had thought that no one but his assistant Joseph knew of his secret autopsies.
Ever since they had landed, whenever he had found an opportunity, Parley had examined the bodies of his fallen colony members. Some of the autopsies had occurred before the burials.
But not all.
“I do not… I cannot understand…” Parley sputtered.
Once more, Tisquantum raised a hand, palm out and extended. “I do not judge your actions. You are a medicine man. You seek the manito, the black spirit sent by Hobbomock.” At Parley’s look of incomprehension, the native clarified. “Satan.”
That statement did nothing to assuage Parley’s fears. Whether or not Tisquantum felt that Parley had violated the laws of God and nature, it was certain that his fellow colonists would, if his actions were known.
“I seek to understand what had happened to cause so many deaths amongst my comrades. But they cannot know what I have done.”
For the first time, Parley saw what appeared to be disapproval in Tisquantum’s gaze. “You wish your actions to remain hidden. This is clear. Why should I uncover what you choose to bury in your heart?”
Something about the disappointment he saw in the man’s eyes drove Parley to a perverse desire to poke holes in his reasoning. He argued the points with a vigor that was self-defeating at best.
“You seek good relations with my colony?” At Tisquantum’s nod, Parley continued. “And yet you would keep hidden a secret that might, by exposing it, allow you to be taken into their trust?”
The Indian’s frown deepened. “You seek the manito sent by Hobbomock. Of what could be more value to your people?”
The man exhibited a naiveté that was disarming. But there was something here around which Parley lacked understanding.
“What do you mean by Hobbomock?” he asked.
Tisquantum grunted, whether in irritation with Parley’s question or frustration at his own inability to explain, it was unclear. He swept his arm out across the bay, mirroring his earlier gesture.
“Your people die. My people die. The black spirit sent by Hobbomock hunts us all.”
“I do not understand what that means.” Then Parley had a realization. “Is it some part of your religion? Your beliefs?”
The penetrating gaze returned, skewering Parley’s soul with the black eyes of the man standing before him. “You are a medicine man, but you imagine that you do not believe. Belief will find you.”
Parley shook his head, dismissing the odd notion. “But what does this spirit have to do with all the deaths? Have we sinned against your god somehow?”
Another grunt, accompanied by a frown. “Your God is my God. I am Christian. Baptized in England, where I lived for many moons.”
“But then…?”
“The black spirit that hunts us does not do so from the spirit world. He has taken form.”
Parley felt that this conversation was circumscribing a circle, over and over again. The more Tisquantum attempted to explain, the less Parley comprehended.
“I am afraid that I do not understand,” he admitted.
“The black spirit has taken form and walks among us,” the native explained. “He has taken human form.”
Finally, Parley understood. Understood, but could not accept. Not here, not in this place, in and amongst those who called themselves Saints and had sacrificed so much for their beliefs. Whatever he might feel about their faith, this was beyond him to take in.
But Tisquantum’s words would not leave his mind. According to him, they had a killer in their midst.
And Parley could think of no counterargument with which to dissuade him.
* * *
“The Lord has seen your hearts, and has judged ye all as souls who are in need of chastising.”
Remmie listened as her father preached the sermon. The tone was as harsh and as bleak as the bare branches of the trees outside the hastily erected wattle and daub building. Bringing her hands up to her face, Remmie blew on her chapped fingers, willing warmth to flow into them.
“Ye are as Uzzah, who reached out his hand to steady the arc. Cut down by the power of God for his disobedience. Ye are as King Saul, who believed that to sacrifice was better than to obey the word of the Lord. He was supplanted by young David. And so will your God supplant ye all with a people in whom he can trust.”
The Sabbath.
A day of rest for the Lord’s people to come together to worship. The majority of the congregation was made up of the Saints, but present more and more amongst their ranks were families of the Strangers.
Much as her father said otherwise, Remmie had seen goodness in these folk. They worshipped the Lord with few exceptions. Many of them did so from their own interpretation of the Bible, that was true, but were that not what the Saints did as well?
“There is a darkness that has wormed its way into your spirits. A blackness of soul that ye must allow the light of Christ to penetrate. The deaths in our midst are signs of God’s displeasure with ye.”
As for love of hearth and home, love of family and zeal for kindness, there were even a few amongst their own Saints that might learn a lesson or twain from these Strangers in their midst. From what Remmie could see, there were nothing to fear from these good people.
And for those that eschewed the Sabbath day worship, it seemed that it would be far more of a persuasion to entreat those misled souls to come to Christ through love unfeigned. The brimstone that was her father’s stock in trade did little to coax the unrepentant to mend their ways. There were times in which Remmie herself would rather be out in the middle of God’s magnificent creation than stuck inside a hall of unfinished wood, listening to all of the sins that would bind her soul down to hell.
She shook her head. Those thoughts were unworthy of a daughter of God. Even less so of a daughter of the pastor in question. She opened up her Book of Psalms in order to sing praises to God. That were her most favorite part of worship.
Bending her head down to view the book, Remmie caught sight of someone looking in her direction. It were John Crackston. The man was staring directly at her, and when Remmie returned his gaze, rather than look away, he held the contact. His strange half smile remained on his face, but its effect was less kind and more gruesome. Like a scar obtained in some terrible accident.
She turned away, troubled by the judgmental thoughts coursing through her mind on this holy day. It were not meant for a daughter of God to harbor such things in her heart.
As the hymn began, there was a disturbance at the rear of the log building in which they held their services. Remmie turned to look and almost fell out of her seat on the rough-hewn s
plit log bench they were using.
There, standing in the entryway of the log chapel, were two men. One, Parley Gardiner, she knew as one of the Strangers. The other was an Indian.
What were an Indian doing here in their place of worship? For a moment, Remmie felt a thrill of fear jolt through her body. The natives had finally decided to attack the colony, and they had chosen to do it on the Lord’s Day. Her father’s dire pronouncements regarding the filthy savages were coming to pass right before her eyes.
As if conjured from her mind, a voice rang out. “What blasphemy is this?” It were Remmie’s father, Pastor Job Wilkes, speaking out from the front of the congregation. “Parley, thou art of thyself less than what can be called a disciple of Christ. But now thou hast brought this heathen into our place of worship?”
The words were an echo of the fears that Remmie held in her heart. But then she looked more closely. This man held himself with dignity. His presence was similar to Samoset, who had come to them two days ago, but there was something unique about this native.
First, he was dressed more fully than Samoset had been. In spite of the frigid temperatures, Samoset had been bare-chested and bare-legged in a way that had made Remmie uncomfortable to look upon him. The Lord had not intended for his children to cavort naked. When Adam and Eve were forced from the Garden of Eden, he made a garment for them to clothe their nakedness.
But this man wore a buckskin jacket and leggings.
In contrast to what seemed a deep sadness in his eyes, the Indian’s demeanor was calm and kind. This in spite of the harsh tone her father had taken. Any other man might have bristled at the energy with which the words had been spoken, even if the words were in a language not understood by him.
And then the Indian spoke, and Remmie’s surprise increased.
“I am no heathen, but a Christian baptized with water as was Christ.”
A murmur ran through the Saints, like the sound of water lapping onto the shore of a lake. The ripple began from the two men and spread outward, reaching the entire group.
The 2nd Cycle of the Darc Murders Omnibus (the acclaimed series from #1 Police Procedural and Hard Boiled authors Carolyn McCray and Ben Hopkin) Page 78
