2nd Cycle of the Harbinger Series Collection

by Carolyn McCray

  His appearance caused an immediate alarm amongst the men, as they had experienced more than one tense encounter with the natives at this point. But as three of the men, one of them John Billington, made as if to retrieve their muskets, the man held up his hand.

  His carriage was straight and strong, almost royal to Parley’s way of thinking. There was an openness about his face that lent his overall aspect a certain appeal. The native raised his chin and opened his mouth to speak.

  “Welcome, Englishmen!”

  * * *

  Tisquantum was troubled.

  He had spent the day in counsel with Samoset, who had earlier traveled without permission to speak with the white settlers there. Samoset was not of this tribe, but had his home to the north, as one of the leaders of the Wampanoag tribe.

  But Samoset was erratic and proud. In spite of the fact that Sachem Massasoit had urged caution in dealing with these newcomers, he had decided to go amongst them, heedless of the danger.

  From what Tisquantum could tell, Samoset had largely done so in order to obtain some of the settler’s beer. The taste for that peculiar, sour beverage Samoset had acquired, along with his broken English, from some English fishermen that had landed close to the Wampanoag tribe.

  And now Samoset had spent the night amongst these Englishmen, eating their food, drinking their strong water, sampling of their hospitality. The problem was that none of the People of the First Light understood the strange rules of hospitality that these English followed.

  Samoset had promised the men that he would return, and that he would bring Tisquantum with him. And Tisquantum’s heart ached within his breast.

  For out of all of the People, Tisquantum knew these English best. He had suffered at their hands, made friends with many, but fully understood none.

  None but John Smith. His friend.

  And it had been John Smith’s companion, Thomas Hunt, who had lured in many braves, including Tisquantum himself, with promises of work and wealth. Braves that he had then taken across the ocean to sell as slaves.

  It had been an experience that had tried Tisquantum’s soul to the utmost. But it had taught him much in the ways of the white man. Ways that he would now be forced to adopt, for the good of his People.

  For, from this time forth, Tisquantum would remove his name as he would remove a buckskin jacket in the spring. Amongst the English, who could not pronounce his name readily, he was Squanto.

  It was a name he had not used since his return to the People fourteen moons ago. But his return had been tainted. Upon arriving back in his native land, he found his entire tribe had gone to Kehtannit, the Great Spirit. A spirit sickness had afflicted his tribe, and they had all succumbed. He alone was left of the Patuxet people.

  Living with the Massasoit tribe felt as close to home as Tisquantum could hope, with his tribe passed on. But he was also, like Samoset, an interloper here.

  “When do the white men wait for me?” he asked in Wampanoag, spoken by all the People of the First Light in this part of Dawnland. Here, none were fully strangers, though they may be from another tribe. Massasoit, Patuxet… they were all Wampanoag.

  “They wait for you at the dawning of the next sun, Tisquantum,” replied Samoset, with a large grin. He understood none of Tisquantum’s concern. To him, the English were important for nothing but what they could provide. Puddings and beer and guns and dogs. Toys with which a grown man could play as if he were again a child.

  But for Tisquantum, a man without a tribe, these were men who lived on the land that his tribe had made sacred with their dead. His land. His home.

  He would welcome them, if he could. He would help them, if they would allow.

  The question remained. What would his People think of him if he allowed friendship to blossom with these men, as it had with John Smith? The love he bore for the man could not wash away the pain of losing his family. But the thought of losing the trust of his adopted tribe burned with a blue fire, low and hot.

  “Then at the dawning of the next sun, I must approach them,” Tisquantum answered after a long pause.

  Sachem Massasoit, his head covered in a headband of eagle feathers pointing straight up, framing his shaved hair. He frowned his concern. “You must be a light for us amongst these white men with their fire sticks,” he said. “They will eat the Dawnland and the People with it. You must go with Kehtannit to show them another way.”

  “I will not fail you, Sachem.”

  The proud Sachem took several leaves of tobacco and crushed them, inserting the shredded plug into his pipe, preparing to smoke. He frowned once more.

  “And find the cause of the deaths.”

  The thought made Tisquantum quail. He knew these English. Knew their goodness and their arrogance. They were great brown bears, hard to rouse, but fighting for the cubs they did not yet have when threatened. For the cubs they might never have. And their roar could be heard from halfway around the world.

  Tisquantum had made the voyage across the great waters four times. Had crossed and come back.

  And yet now, in his heart, he was afraid.

  CHAPTER 2

  Parley heard a flapping of wings overhead, a flurry of flight as a bird traveled along behind him to land in the bare tree branches just above. It startled him, causing his stomach to leap up into his throat and rest there, throbbing. Glancing up, he saw one of the large vultures that was common in the area, its large, black wingspan somehow made even more threatening by its scaled blood colored head.

  The morning had started auspiciously enough, with Parley having spotted a hind bounding through the underbrush. He had snatched up a gun and made to follow the beast, hoping for some meat to add to their ever-decreasing food stores. But the beast had evaded him readily enough. It seemed that the daily routine of the medical profession had done little to prepare him for life in the wilderness.

  The bird settled into its new perch, eyeing Parley malevolently. There was aught about those birds that struck him as less than natural. Un-nature in a sense that should not be, especially in a place of such untrammeled purity as this New World.

  The vulture had found a fresh kill. Well, as fresh as anything upon which such creatures would feast.

  A length of entrails dangled from the vulture’s misshapen beak.

  Parley shuddered, cursing his body as it betrayed his scientific mind. There was no need to have such portents affect him. He was not a superstitious man.

  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 call 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 colon
y 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.”