by Janet Lunn
“George?”
His eyes were two glowing coals in the dark. He did not move, but Phoebe knew by the way he thrust his head forward so belligerently that it was George.
“What are you doing here, George?” She reached for him. He darted up a tree, perched himself on a branch just out of reach, and turned his back to her.
“Stay there, then. I am much too tired to even try to fetch you down.” She lay down, rolled her shawl up and put it under her head, pulled her cloak over her, and fell asleep with the soft gurgling sound of the brook in her ear.
She woke, hours later, to see an arrow of sunlight strike a patch of leaves on the ground in front of her. On that bright patch a chipmunk stood on its hind legs, rigid with fear. George crouched, inches away, ready to pounce. Phoebe shot out her hand and grabbed the chipmunk. George’s tail lashed angrily. For a second he looked as though he might lunge at her. Then he stalked off. She stroked the chipmunk with her finger along its black stripe. “I think you will do nicely now,” she murmured. She lifted her hand. The chipmunk scooted from her lap, leapt onto a nearby log, chittered rapidly at her, then disappeared under the log.
Phoebe got up stiffly. She found a place to pee. She washed her hands and face in the pool, then cupped her hands and drank deeply from the icy water. She shook out her cloak and shawl and put them around her, looking down rue-fully at a rent in her skirt. She sat down and took off her wet stockings and her moccasins. She was glad she had thought to exchange her shoes for the moccasins. “Better in the woods — they make you more sure-footed and make less noise,” Gideon had said approvingly when Peter Sauk brought them to her in thanks for so many dinners.
Dinner. Phoebe did not want to think about dinner. She realized, as she hung her stockings over a bush to dry, that she felt brighter for her drink and her wash in the pool but that she was very hungry. How she wished she had brought with her that ham and johnnycake she had spurned in Aunt Rachael’s kitchen. What was she to do? She knew she had to eat. She looked around her as though a well-stocked larder might suddenly appear among the trees and bushes.
It’s hopeless, she thought. It truly is hopeless. I will have to go back.
Go back. It was, at the same time, a wonderful and a dreadful idea. Anne might already be sorry she had screamed at her and hit her. Anne’s hysteria never lasted very long. And Aunt Rachael would be needing help with the boys. And, oh, the sorrow would not seem so unbearable among the others who had loved Gideon. But, if she went back, she would fail Gideon again and could never atone for having carried that accursed letter to Polly Grantham. And those families who names were on that list would lose everything. No, she could not go back.
But, I must eat, she realized all too painfully, and I must plan. She leaned against a tree while she took stock of her situation. There wasn’t much to take stock of. She had no spare clothes, no provisions or cooking utensils. She had no map to help her find her direction. She had two things: in her pocket she had the tinder-box she had taken from her father’s desk and, amazingly, she had left Orland Village with Aunt Rachael’s paring knife gripped tightly in one hand. Through all those long hours climbing the hills beside Trout Brook she had never let go of it. It had lain beside her while she slept and was there now, on the ground where she had left it. She moved over and picked it up.
“I have a knife,” she crowed. “I have a knife. With a knife I can make a hook, and with a hook, and a stick and a length of vine, I can catch fish.”
The pool was like a large, deep basin, with tiny streamlets trickling into it from above and Trout Brook pouring out of it over the rocks below. And there were fish. As soon as the thought of catching them struck Phoebe, she saw the fish, then wondered how she had not really noticed them earlier. There were trout and they were moving like shadows deep among the rock caves and passages under the clear water. She thought, as she had often done before, how beautiful a trout was, red and green and silver, luminous, as she’d always imagined jewels to be. It was a shame to have to catch one. But she was very hungry, so she set to work at once to fashion the hook and then find a stick and a length of vine for a rod and line. It was not difficult, it did not take long, and she was soon settled by the pool with her fishing gear.
Within minutes her first small trout was flopping on the ground. Almost at once she had three more. Quickly she gathered a pile of twigs and leaves and, with the help of the flint and steel from her tinder-box, kindled a flame. She set the fish over the fire on a little stick frame. They smelled so good cooking that she ate them burnt on the outside, raw on the inside, spitting almost more bones than she consumed flesh, and not caring at all. She hardly tasted them, she ate so fast. But she felt better and not quite so cold. She was ready to resume her journey.
“I wish the sun were not so far away,” she grumbled, “or, at least, that the trees were not so high, so that I could see where the sun is. Then, I think, I would know which way is west.”
As if he were right there beside her, she heard again Gideon’s voice explaining: “One has but to look for the moss when one is unsure of one’s direction in the wild. You see, moss grows on the north side of a tree, away from the sun, always away from the sun. Spiders, to the contrary, prefer the dry, south side of a tree. Woodpeckers, particularly those great pileated woodpeckers, always tap the east side. They seem to enjoy the morning sun.”
She had laughed at him. “There’s no sun in the deep woods.”
“Oh, indeed there is,” he had assured her. “There are shadows in the forest and there is light. If you know which plants reach for the sun and which shy away from it, you can readily find your direction should you lose it. The forest is easy to read, Phoebe. You need only learn its language.” He had made her repeat what he had told her. “Because, Mouse” — he had grinned at her — “you are sure to be lost in the woods if you ever grow bold enough to really venture into them.”
Phoebe shook her head to clear it. She looked around her at the sunlight filtering through the deep-green pines, the golden tamaracks, and the bare branches of the hardwood trees. She listened for and heard the woodpeckers tapping, jays calling.
Glad the early snow hadn’t lasted, she put her moccasins on, although they hadn’t really dried in the cold air, and crunched through the dry leaves to walk slowly around the nearest trees. She inspected their bark carefully. Sure enough, here was a clump of moss on the dark side of an oak tree, and there another on the same side of a maple. And she saw woodpecker holes up and down the sides of some of the pines, and always on the sunny side.
“It’s true, it’s as Gideon said,” she whispered. “Then this way is west — of course it is, it must be, it leads away from the brook.”
Gingerly, she put on her wet stockings. She stored her tinder-box in her pocket along with her knife and the message for the General at Fort Ticonderoga. She called George. She poked around among the bushes. He had not appeared when she’d cooked the fish or come to eat the fish heads. She felt a little as though she had been abandoned, but decided that he must have gone home, that he would be better off there, that she was better off travelling without him.
She knelt beside the deep pool and said a prayer for guidance, and another for Gideon’s and her father’s souls. “And,” she said at the end, “please, God, help George find his way home.”
Almost as a part of her prayer, she splashed water on her face and drank from the pool one last time. She said goodbye to the brook, turned, and headed towards the west.
At first she started at every rustle in the leaves, every flutter in the trees. She would peer nervously about her, sure that a wolf, a rattlesnake, or a bear was just at the point of crossing her path, but, as the day wore on, she became a little more confident. She could hear the squirrels, chipmunks, weasels and rabbits, but she got used to them and they scurried away at the sound of her footsteps. The only large animal she saw all morning was a black bear, but it was a good distance away, across a stream, and so busy at a berry bu
sh that it did not see her. All the same, she put her feet very carefully for a long time afterwards so as to make as little noise as possible.
She travelled all morning and well into the afternoon through dark evergreen forest where the ground was carpeted with needles that felt soft under her moccasins, the scent of pine and hemlock was heavy, and the wind soughed in the high branches. She walked through great groves of maples, oaks, and butternuts, where the sun shone brightly through the almost-bare branches. Here the jays and crows kept her company with their loud, cheerful cries, and here she found butternuts on the ground she could crack with a stone and so keep the worst of her hunger at bay.
She hiked up along swift-flowing streams and down into dark valleys. She trudged for hours up the side of a high hill, where the mountain ash grew thick, its low-hanging branches heavy with scarlet berries that gleamed against the deep-blue sky. For a time she followed a narrow but well-tramped path up a low hillside, but it ended by a pool below a waterfall where blueberries grew. She realized it must be a bear’s trail and hastily retraced her steps. She knew that bears would be feeding on berries and nuts in the high ground this time of year, then looking for likely caves or hollows to hibernate in for the winter. She only hoped she wouldn’t fall into a bear’s chosen hollow. She recognized no Indian trails, saw no signs of human habitation, saw no more large animals except for a family of deer on the mountain where the mountain ash grew.
She found a huckleberry bush by a stream with a few berries on it the bears had missed. Greedily she stuffed them into her mouth. Then she sat down, took off her moccasins, and rubbed her tired feet. She leaned back against a large rock and listened to the rhythmic roar of the distant waterfall. After a few minutes she began to doze.
“No, I mustn’t,” she cried, and the sound of her own voice frightened her into wakefulness. She shoved her feet back into her moccasins. She searched the trees — probably for the fiftieth time that day — for moss and spiders and woodpecker drillings, then started off once more.
About an hour later, when the shadows had begun to lengthen across her path, Phoebe glimpsed a small meadow through the trees. She heard the growling and snarling of animals. She crept forward to the edge of the meadow. Over on the far side, by a small stream, she could see a pack of wolves tussling with something. Phoebe took a hasty step back. She felt a tree behind her. She grabbed a limb and swung herself up. Frantically, she reached for the next branch. She touched rough fur and let out a terrified squawk. The animal squawked, too, and scrambled farther up into the tree.
Oh, dear Father in Heaven, it’s a catamount, Phoebe thought. Above her the animal moved. She began to pray. There was no more movement on the branch above her. Slowly she opened her eyes and looked up. A pair of terrified round black eyes looked back at her.
“You’re a bear,” gasped Phoebe. She almost let go of her branch, she was so frightened. Her thoughts raced: Wolves ate other animals all the time — they could eat people — bears didn’t eat people, but they had such terrible claws. She looked up at the bear. She looked down and across the meadow. She could see, from this height, what the wolves were tussling over. It was the carcass of a large black bear. For a moment her stomach heaved. She took a deep breath and looked up again. The bear way above her in the tree looked quite small, not full grown. What’s more, it still looked as frightened as she felt. I think I know who you are, she thought; that was your mama, wasn’t it?
“I won’t hurt you, if you don’t hurt me,” whispered Phoebe. She hiked up her skirt, wrapped her arms securely around the limb of the tree, and settled herself on the branch. A few branches above her, the bear stared down at her. It did not move. It did not make a sound.
“Bear,” she whispered, after a few minutes, “we might be here all night, just the two of us, and those villains down there.”
She had no sooner spoken when she heard a loud meow and a large orange cat sprang into her lap. She stifled a scream and clutched her tree branch frantically. George glared at her and dug his sharp claws into her knees.
“I was wrong,” croaked Phoebe. “There are three of us. George, where did you come from? Where have you been all day?” She hugged him with one arm. He bit her. She slipped and grabbed George by his tail. He yowled and dug his claws in deeper. She managed to right herself, shaking with fright. She turned her head quickly to see if the wolves had heard the noise, but if they had they paid no attention.
They had finished with the carcass of the bear. One by one, they were loping off into the woods.
She waited a while after the last one had gone. Then, holding tightly to the cat, she eased herself from the branch and slid down the tree trunk. George jumped to the ground. Phoebe stood leaning against the tree with her head back, her eyes closed. Gradually, she sensed the presence of someone close by. She opened her eyes to see the bemused face of a tall, young Mohawk man not a foot from her.
Peter Sauk
“Peter? Peter Sauk?” Phoebe stared at the young man in disbelief. “Peter, oh, Peter, praise God. I think I am lost again. For the first while, you see, it was clear enough that I had but to follow the brook, but then the brook came to an end, and it was because I was stupid about what Gideon said. I thought I was lost but I remembered what he said about the moss and the woodpeckers and I walked that way but then there were those wolves and there was the bear and George and … and …” She stared blankly at Peter, her thoughts a hopeless tangle.
Peter Sauk shook his head. “Little Bird,” he said in the slow, deep voice Phoebe remembered from so many evenings back home in Hanover. “I don’t believe I have ever heard you say so many words at once in all the years I have known you. Nor do any of them make sense. Come. It is late. My mother and my young sister are camped only a short distance from here. You will have to tell me these things later.” He put his hand on her back and turned her in the direction the wolves had taken.
Phoebe did not hesitate. Peter Sauk was a person she trusted. Among the students who had spent their evenings with her father, he was one who had always greeted her with a smile and who, most often, had had a story or a joke for her, and it was he who had given her her moccasins. And here he was. Unbelievably, here he was. She didn’t even stop to wonder why.
And there will be something to eat, she thought. A wonderful warmth spread through her as she followed Peter through the evening shadows. For once, George was right behind her. The bear had disappeared.
Peter was right. It took no more than a few minutes for them to cross the meadow, where Phoebe turned her face from the remains of the bear, and to find their way through the woods to a small birch glade by the edge of a river. There Peter’s mother and sister had made camp. By the light of their fire, Phoebe saw the two women, dressed in deerskin leggings and tunics, busying themselves over an iron cooking pot suspended from a tripod of sticks. Whatever was in the pot smelled so good that Phoebe wanted nothing more than to sit right down with the pot in front of her and eat.
The women got to their feet as she approached. “My mother, Shakoti’nisténha.” Peter bowed towards the older of the two. “My sister, Katsi’tsiénhawe.” He turned to the younger, and Phoebe saw that she was a girl about her own age.
“Greetings,” said Shakoti’nisténha. Katsi’tsiénhawe stood back. She lowered her head in acknowledgement but said nothing. Peter said a few words to them in Mohawk. His mother smiled. His sister nodded shyly.
“I have told them that you are the daughter of my teacher at Dr. Wheelock’s school in Hanover, the girl for whom we have been searching, also that you speak only English. Unfortunately, my sister, Katsi’tsiénhawe, speaks only Mohawk. My mother speaks only a little English. But” — he smiled — “she cooks very well. Come.”
Gratefully Phoebe took her place by the fire and accepted the noggin of water, the bannock, and the birchbark bowl full of stew from Shakoti’nisténha. Peter told her it was porcupine stew. The meat was as sweet as pork and as tender as the kernels of corn that adde
d their own flavour to the rich gravy. Phoebe had an almost overwhelming urge to put her face down into the bowl and eat like the cat. But, as the others did, she dipped her fingers into the bowl for the pieces of meat and mopped up the gravy with the bannock. She gave the last of it to George, who had sat by her as she ate, stretching out his paw and crying angrily. The other three laughed.
It was only after she had mopped up the last of the gravy from her second portion of stew that Peter asked her why she was out in the woods alone. He sat with his back against a large birch tree, his legs stretched out in front of him. Moonlight gleamed on the white bark of the tree and on his black braided hair. He was cleaning his pipe with a twig, something Phoebe had seen him do a hundred times or more by her own fireside. It made her feel comfortable.
“Peter” — she inched herself a little closer and lowered her voice as though enemies lurked behind every tree — “I do not know that I should tell you. It is not mine to tell.”
“Little Bird, I have not lived to be twenty years of age, nearly half of it in the white man’s world, by casting words about as the milkweed casts seeds.”
Phoebe was very still. Should she tell Peter about the message? She knew he would not divulge its contents because she knew his word was good. She knew, too, that the Mohawks fought as allies with the British and that Gideon’s note had said to take the message to the Mohawk Elias Brant. But it seemed somehow like a betrayal to tell Gideon’s story to anyone.
“I must tell you,” said Peter, “that I knew you had left your uncle’s home. A relative of mine who had reason to be in Hanover saw you there. He—”
“He was following me. I knew there was someone!”
“He sent me word, and we were watching for you, Little Bird. It is not wise for you to be alone in the woods. Not three days since there was a great battle south and west of here near the Hudson River at a place called Freeman’s Farm. The British lost that battle — but that matters little to you. What matters is that now not only are the woods full of wild animals, they are full of soldiers, deserters from both armies, and not all good, kind men. A young girl alone is not safe. You have no one, and you have not even a firearm to protect you. I doubt you have as much as a hunting knife.”
