Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (60 page)

 
          
 
"I mean 'er, Dick. If'n ye lives, make
peace with yer pap. Taint a small thing, having a pap. White folk think
everybody's got one, just like a right hand. Black folk can tell y'all
different."

 
          
 
Richard chewed at his lip, remembering
Phillip's hard face, the fleshy nose and pinched-on glasses. How can there be
any reconciliation? We might as well live in different worlds.

 
          
 
Richard asked, "What do you think my
chances of living through this are?"

 
          
 
"Depends, coon. How bad you want to live?
If'n yor of a mind to go under, I figger you'll be maggot meat afore the
Yellerstone."

 
          
 
"Thanks for the confidence."

 
          
 
Baptiste turned to
Willow
, ebony hands flying. For a long moment she
studied Richard with those large dark eyes, then made signs in return.

 
          
 
"What's all that?" Richard demanded.

 
          
 
Baptiste sucked at his lips, dark eyes burning
under the wide brim of his hat. "I asked her if n she thought you'd live.
She says she thinks so. She says yor a medicine man, but you don't know it yet.
She says that none of us knows yor Power. That such medicine is a gift not many
people have. She says you carry the answer down inside. If n you wants to live,
you'll do her, but the only one can call it up is you. She says she don't
understand why the spirits would give such Power to a young white man."

 
          
 
"Medicine? Power?" He let his gaze
follow the smooth curve of her cheek, remembering the soaring sense when they'd
looked into each other's eyes that day in camp. Was that what had touched his
soul?

 
          
 
Willow
's
fingers were moving again, dancing gracefully.

 
          
 
Baptiste continued, "She says that you
need to sweat, to purify yourself. That yor confused. Power's pulling you lots
of different ways. To larn yor Power, you gotta be cleansed of the White man's
confusion. Become pure, and seek yor vision."

 
          
 
"Vision? My only vision is of
Boston
."

 
          
 
At that,
Willow
laughed and said, "Ritshard not think
his way to God." She tapped her chest "God hyar. Souls know Tarn Apo,
not thoughts."

 
          
 
Power? Spirits? It was nothing more than the
superstitious nonsense of the savage mind. No matter how he might be attracted
to
Willow
, that gulf between the savage and the
civilized would always separate them.

 
          
 
So, Richard, think of something else. He
cleared his mind and turned his eyes back to Blackbird's grave. A river pirate.
Red instead of white. You weren 't any different from my father. Maximize your
investment, even if it took poisoning your competition. And what did that imply
about the state of man in nature?

 
          
 
I just haven't found it yet. I need to look a
little further, beyond the influence of the traders.

 
          
 
But that meant going farther upriver. Ever
farther from
Boston
, and civilized society.

 
          
 
Remember, I’m only stuck here until Travis is
well. Then, I'm off for those pleasant streets. Pick a goal? Why,
Boston
, of course, and Laura, and the life we'll
have together. That's it. My spirit quest.

 
          
 
And when he returned, there would be no
compromise with Phillip Hamilton. Some things, like shattered crystal goblets,
could never be put back together again.

 
          
 
"Got an answer fo'
Willow
?" Baptiste asked. "About
God?"

 
          
 
"Whose answer do you want? Hegel's?
Anselm's? Augustine's? Voltaire's? How about Montaigne's observation that while
men create gods by the dozen, they can't breathe life into a lowly worm?"

 
          
 
"Want truth, Dik,"
Willow
said simply.

 
          
 
"Truth flies like a bird," Richard
whispered, staring up at the windy point.

 
          
 
"Like eagle,"
Willow
said softly. "Or hummingbird who
brings the thunder. Or Magic Owl. Truth flies high."

 
          
 
Richard ignored her, lost in thought. What if he
went beyond the reach of the traders and still found men willing to pay any
price for goods?

 
          
 
Blackbird, just how different were you from my
father?

 
          
 
And if men should all prove to be the same, no
matter what their origins or circumstance?

 
          
 
No, that thought was too grisly to entertain.

 
          
 
Just make it home . . . to
Boston
, Richard. Nothing else matters.

 
          
 
His fingers absently caressed the long silken
hair on the fetish Travis had tied to his belt.

 
          
 
Morning bathed the land with new light; mist drifted
across the smooth river and through the trees lining the bank. Smoke hung in
blue smudges over the fires as the men in the messes finished their corn and
venison. Overhead, the heart-shaped cottonwood leaves hung silently, waiting
for the dawn. Occasional coughs and the metallic clank of pots and tin cups
accented the engages' low voices.

 
          
 
Richard sipped at his steaming coffee as he
sat on a weather-silvered cottonwood log. He glanced across the fire at
Willow
, then quickly averted his eyes. She and
Laura were like night and day.

 
          
 
Dreams of
Willow
had tortured him all night long, of her
smile and the straightforward way she looked at him with those incredible eyes.

 
          
 
That knowledge plagued him, as if he'd been
somehow disloyal to Laura's faith in him. It's not that I'm in love with
Willow
, just fascinated. As a scholar. It's my
business to investigate her thoughts, to learn about her and her ways.

 
          
 
But
Willow
kept creeping into his thoughts in the most
unscholarly ways. With the exception of Laura, he'd never bothered with women.
They frightened him even more than they fascinated him. Those he'd met in
Boston
—gentle ladies, every last one—either stared
right through him as if he weren't there, or they gave him a gushy, airy-eyed
look of false worship. And in no instance had he carried on a conversation of
importance with a woman. They just dithered on about the weather, or was the
coffee prepared correctly? Always trite.

 
          
 
And now
Willow
fills my imagination — an Indian woman, who
barely speaks English, has never held a book, and carries a war club, bow, and
arrows. Yet they'd conversed about God, and souls, and he'd barely touched the
rind of her knowledge about life. And that slight touch had enthralled him.

 
          
 
She's an illiterate savage! But what fed the
glow that filled her eyes when she looked at him? He shook his head, biting his
lip.

 
          
 
His coffee was bitter, watery, laced with the
now familiar taste of riverwater. Dear God, what he'd give to be in a coffee
shop in
Boston
, tasting the rich brews—dark and steaming.
The aroma filled the nose. He'd add a dollop of cream and fine
Jamaica
sugar. Just right. . . Someday.

 
          
 
He glanced at
Willow
. What would she make of
Boston
? He could imagine her laughing, eyes
shining as she raised a porcelain teacup to her lips. No, impossible! The
vision burst like a ruptured bladder.

 
          
 
His blankets were rolled and tied, ready to be
packed.

 
          
 
Across the fire from him,
Willow
was working the snarls out of her raven
hair with a comb Travis had given her, the teeth sliding through that glossy
wealth.

 
          
 
Travis ducked out of Green's tent and walked
through the camp to hunker down beside Richard. Through squinted eyes, the
hunter watched
Willow
. "Purty, ain't she?"

 
          
 
"Indeed she is," Richard admitted.
To his embarrassment,
Willow
glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "And I think she's
learning English much too quickly."

 
          
 
"Do tell, coon?" she asked. "I
reckon I don't know shit yet."

 
          
 
Richard took a deep breath. "
Willow
, that's..." But, what? She was
learning the speech of these frontiersmen, not the cultured language of the
civilized East "I mean, well, there are different ways of speaking. Some
are proper, and some aren't. Ladies don't say words like that."

 
          
 
"Like what?"

 
          
 
He colored. "Like. .. 'shit.' It isn't
polite for a lady to use."

 
          
 
She lifted the corner of her lip, then said,
"White lady is no better than horse to White man.
Willow
is no trophy, Ritshard."

 
          
 
Travis laughed, reached across, and took
Richard's coffee. He sipped, swished the liquid around his mouth, and
swallowed. "That's some, it is. Gonna philos'phy her to death?"

 
          
 
Richard ignored him, concentrating on
Willow
. "Do you want to learn the proper
way?"

 
          
 
"Hell!" Travis growled, giving the
tin cup back. "She ain't never a-going to no
Boston
. Leave the child be."

 
          
 
"Proper?"
Willow
studied him thoughtfully, her long fingers
caressing the comb.

 
          
 
"Formal. Like the way I speak. You've
been learning the way Travis and Baptiste talk, that's fine for here, on the
river, but not for civilized places."

 
          
 
Travis snorted disgust.