Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (102 page)

The live thing leapt straight up into Ian’s throat, and a good thing, too, as it stopped him speaking.

“This dream has come twice, and this person has prayed,” she said softly, going back to the Kahnyen’kehaka.

“This person prayed,” she repeated, looking up into his face, “and you are here.”

He was mildly surprised that he wasn’t shocked. Swiftest of Lizards had told him that old Tewaktenyonh had told
him
that he was the son of Ian’s spirit. Clearly she would have told Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa the same thing—or Emily had told the old woman.

“I thought perhaps I would have to send my son to my sister, in Albany,” she said. “But she has no husband now, and three children to feed. And I worry,” she said simply. “Things are very dangerous. Thayendanegea says that the war will soon be over, but his wife’s eyes say he does not believe it.”

“His wife is right.” Both of them were whispering now, though he could hear the murmur of the women talking at the end of the house. “My uncle’s wife is a…” There were words for magic, and foretelling, as he had used with Thayendanegea, but none of them seemed quite right now. “She sees what will happen. That’s why I came; I met Looks at the Moon and Hunting like a Glutton in the place where I live, and they told me of the massacre at Osequa, and your husband’s death. They didn’t know whether you were still with Thayendanegea’s people, nor how you and your children fared. And so I came to see,” he ended simply.

He didn’t realize that she’d been holding her breath, until she let it out in a long, deep sigh that touched his face.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now that you know—you will take Tòtis?”

“I will.” He said it without hesitation, even as he wondered how on earth he’d tell Rachel about this.

Emily’s relief touched him, and so did she, clasping his hand hard against her breast.

“If your wife will not have him at her fire,” she said, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice once more, “I am sure you will find a woman who will care for him?” That was done sometimes; if a man’s wife died and he married someone who didn’t get along with his children, he’d go to and fro and look until he found a woman who would either be his second wife or, if she was married, would care for his children in return for his providing her with meat and skins.

“Perhaps your mother?” Emily said, hope mingling with doubt in her voice.

“Neither my wife nor my mother would see any bairn starve,” he assured her, though his imagination was unequal to envisioning what either one was going to say. He squeezed her hand gently and let go. He already knew that he couldn’t explain Emily to Rachel; now he realized that he could never explain Rachel to Emily, either, and smiled wryly to himself.

“My wife is a Friend, ken? And she paints her face with wisdom.”

“I am a little bit afraid of her,” Emily said honestly. “Will you go and tell her—ask her—now?”

“Come with me,” he said, and stood up. It wasn’t until they had come out into the pale light of snow and fog that something occurred to him, and he turned to her.

“Ye said ye prayed, Emily,” he said, and she blinked at the sound of his name for her. “Who were ye praying to?” He asked it out of curiosity; some Mohawk were Christians, and might pray to Jesus or His mother, but she had never been a Christian, when he knew her.

“Everybody,” she said simply. “I hoped someone would hear.”

IAN SAW RACHEL
walking toward the longhouse with Oggy when they pushed back the hide over the door, and Emily went out to her at once, inviting her in.

Rachel stopped for a moment, blinking into the darkness; then her eyes found Ian and she saw what she wanted in his face, for she smiled. The smile lessened, but still lingered, when she turned to Emily. It vanished when Ian told her about Tòtis, but only for an instant. He saw her swallow and imagined her reaching for her inner light.

“Yes, of course,” she said to Emily, and turned to the boy, warmth in her eyes. “He will always be your son, but I’m honored that he will be mine, too. I’ll certainly feed him at my hearth—all he wants, ever.” Ian hadn’t realized that his wame was clenched tight, until it relaxed and he drew a very deep breath. Tòtis had been eyeing Rachel with curiosity, but no fear. He glanced at his mother, who nodded, and he went to Rachel and, taking her hand, kissed her palm.

“Oh,” Rachel said softly, and caressed his head.

“Tòtis,” Emily said, and the boy turned and went to her. She hugged him close and kissed his head, and Ian saw the shine of the tears she wouldn’t shed until her son was truly gone. “Give it to him now,” she whispered in Mohawk, and lifted her chin toward Ian.

He’d been much too intent on their conversation to notice much about the furnishings, beyond the sleeping furs and their memories, but when Tòtis nodded and ran toward a large, lidded basket that stood in the corner of the compartment, half hidden under the ledge, he had a sudden notion what it held.

“Wake up!” Tòtis said, pushing the lid off and leaning into the basket. A soft thumping came from the depths, and the long creaking noise of a yawn. And then Tòtis stood up with a large, gray, furry puppy in his arms and a grin on his face, missing two teeth.

“One of the many grandsons of your wolf, Okwaho, iahtahtehkonah,” Emily said, with a smile to match her son’s. “We thought you should have someone to follow you again. Go ahead,” she encouraged Tòtis. “Give it to him.”

Tòtis looked up at Ian, still grinning. But as he came near, he turned, and holding the puppy up to Oggy said, “He is yours, my brother.” He’d spoken in Mohawk, but Oggy understood the gesture, if not the words, and squealed with joy, bending half out of Rachel’s arms in his urge to touch the dog. Ian grabbed him and sat down on the floor with him, and Tòtis let the wriggling puppy go. It leapt on Oggy and began kneading him with its paws, licking his face and wagging its tail, all at the same time. Oggy didn’t cry, but giggled and kicked his legs and squealed in the light of the fire. Tòtis couldn’t resist and joined in the scuffle, laughing and pushing.

Emily looked blank for a moment, but when Ian said, “Thank ye, lass,” she smiled again.

“So,” she said, “you named my son for me; let me do the same for yours.” She spoke gravely, in English, and looked from Ian’s face to Rachel’s and back again.

Ian felt Rachel stiffen and feared that this might be one too much for the inner light. The blue paint had begun to melt with her sweat in the heat of the longhouse and was spreading little blue tendrils and drops down her cheeks like budding vines. Her mouth opened, but she didn’t seem able to form words. He saw her shoulders straighten, though, and she nodded at Emily, who nodded seriously back, before turning her attention to Oggy.

“His name is Hunter,” she said.

“Oh,” Rachel said, and her smile blossomed slowly through the vines.

IAN DECLINED AN INVITATION
to stay the night in the longhouse, to Rachel’s very apparent relief. He squeezed her hand, and when no one was looking raised it to his lips.

“Tapadh leat, mo bhean, mo ghaol,”
he whispered. She knew that much Gaelic, and her face, a little strained under the blue and white streaks, relaxed into its normal loveliness.

She squeezed back and whispered, “Hunter James, and whatever the Mohawk is for ‘Little Wolf.’ ”

“Ohstòn’ha Ohkwàho,” he said. “Done.” He turned to make their farewells.

Tòtis would stay with his mother until the Murrays’ departure for the Ridge, and so it was only the three of them that returned to Joseph Brant’s house, riding in the wagon through the quiet, cold dark. The early storm had passed, and the light snow melted; the moon cast light enough to make the muddy road visible before them.

He thanked her again for agreeing to take Tòtis, but she shook her head.

“I grew up as an orphan in the home of people who sheltered me out of duty, not love. And while I had Denzell for some of those years, I wanted more than anything to have a big family, a family of my own. I still want that. Besides,” she added casually, “how could I not love him? He looks like thee. Has thee a clean handkerchief? I fear my paint is running down my neck.”

The house looked welcoming, all its windows lighted and sparks flying from the chimney.

“Does thee suppose Silvia and her daughters have come yet?” Rachel asked. “I had forgotten them altogether.”

Ian felt his heart jerk. He’d forgotten them, too.

“Aye, they have,” he said. “But the house is still standing. I expect that’s a good sign.”

EVERYONE SEEMED TO
be at the back of the house; there was talk and laughter in the distance and the smell of supper hung appetizingly in the air, but only the servant-girl who let them in was in evidence.

Rachel begged him to make her excuses; she wanted only to feed Oggy, who, having slept in her arms like a small, heavy log all the way home, was now showing signs of life, and to go to bed.

“I’ll ask the cook to send ye a wee snack, shall I? I smell roast salmon and mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms have no smell unless they’re right under thy nose,” she said, yawning. “But yes, please.”

She vanished upstairs, and Ian turned to go and announce their arrival. As he did so, though, he heard footsteps on the landing above and turned to see Silvia, with Prudence and Patience, the girls gleaming with cleanliness, their hair tightly braided under their caps.

“Well met, Friends,” he said, smiling at the girls. They wished him a good evening, but were plainly in some agitation of mind, and so was their mother.

“Can I help?” he said quietly, as she stepped down beside him. She shook her head, and he saw that she was wound tight as the string of a top.

“We are well,” she said, but a nervous swallow ran down her throat, and she had a fold of her skirt still clutched tight. “We—are going to meet Gabriel. In the parlor.”

Patience and Prudence were clearly trying hard to preserve some sense of decorum, but it was just as clear that they were fizzing with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

“Aye?” Ian said. He looked at Silvia and said, low-voiced, “Ye’ve talked to them, of course?”

She nodded and touched her cap to make sure it was straight. “I told them what has happened to their father and how he comes to be here,” she said. Her long upper lip pressed down tight for a moment. “I said that he will tell them…everything else.”

Or maybe not,
Ian thought, but he bowed to them, ushering them toward the parlor. A small giggle escaped Prudence, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

To Ian’s surprise, Silvia opened the parlor door and motioned the girls in, but promptly shut it after them. She leaned against the wall beside it, dead white in the face, eyes closed. He thought he’d best not leave her and leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, waiting.

“Papa?” one of the girls said inside the parlor, almost in a whisper. Her sister said, louder, “Papa,” and then both of them shrieked
“Papa, Papa, Papa!”
and there was the sound of feet thundering across a wooden floor and the screech of a chair’s legs as bodies struck it.

“Prudie!” Gabriel’s voice was choked, filled with joy. “Pattie! Oh, my darlings, oh, my darling girls!”

“Papa, Papa!” they kept saying, their exclamations interrupting each other’s half-asked questions and observations, and Gabriel said their names over and over, like an incantation against their disappearance. Everyone was crying.

“I missed you so,” he said hoarsely. “Oh, my babies. My sweet, dear babies.”

Silvia was crying, too, but silently, a crumpled white handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She motioned to Ian, and he took her arm, helping her down the corridor, for she walked as though drunk, bumping into the walls and into him. She wanted to go outside, and he grabbed a cloak from the hook by the door and wrapped it hastily round her, guiding her down the wooden steps.

He took her to the tree his mother and the Sachem had used for their shooting practice, observing absently that they—or someone—had been at it again, for the torn corner of a pink calico handkerchief flapped from a nail, the lower edges ragged and singed brown. There was a bench, though, and he sat Silvia down and sat beside her, his shoulder touching hers while she wept, shaking with it.

She stopped after a few minutes, and sat still, twisting the wet handkerchief between her hands.

“I keep trying to think of a way,” she said thickly. “But I can’t.”

“A way to—?” he began cautiously. “To let the girls stay wi’ their father?”

She nodded, slowly. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, where the thin snow was trampled and footmarks had scuffed through it, leaving a moil of dirt, snow, and slicks of half-frozen meltwater.

“But I can’t,” she said again, and blew her nose. Ian disliked the painful look of the wet handkerchief applied to her raw, red nose, and handed her a dry though paint-stained one from his sleeve. “Two of my daughters are his—but I have three. Even if—”

Ian made a small noise in his throat, and she looked at him sharply.

“What?”

“I’m sure he’d ha’ told ye himself, were ye on speaking terms,” Ian said. “But Thayendanegea told me this morning, that he has two wee bairns wi’ the woman he…ehm…”
She’d have found out anyway,
he argued silently, and she would, but he still felt like a guilty toad, a feeling not improved by the look of naked betrayal on her face.

“Does it help, to curse aloud?” she said at last.

“Well…aye. It does, a bit. Ye dinna ken any curses, though, do ye?”

She frowned, considering.

“I do know some words,” she said. “The men who…came to my house would often say wild things, especially if they’d brought liquor or…or if there was more than one, and they…quarreled.”

“Mac na galladh,”
he muttered.

“Is that a Scottish curse?” she asked, and sat up straighter, the handkerchief still twisted in her hands. “Perhaps I should find it easier to say bad words in another language.”

“Nay,
Gàidhlig
cursing’s a different thing. It’s…well, ye make a curse for the occasion, ye might say. We really dinna have bad
words,
but ye might say something like,
‘May worms breed in your belly and choke ye on their way out.’
That’s no a very good one,” he said apologetically. “Just on the spur o’ the moment, ken? Uncle Jamie can turn a curse would curl your hair, without even thinkin’ about it, but I’m no that good.”

She made a small
hough
sound that wasn’t close to a laugh, but wasn’t crying, either.

“What was that thee said, then?” she asked, after a moment’s silence. “In Gaelic.”

“Oh,
mac na galladh
? That’s just ‘son of a bitch.’ Something ye might say by way o’ description, maybe. Or if ye can’t think of anything better to say, and ye have to say something or burst.”

“
Mac na galladh,
then,” she said, and fell silent.

“Thee need not stay with me,” she added, after a few moments.

“Dinna be daft,” he said amiably, and they sat together for some time. Until the back door opened, and the black form of a man on crutches showed for a moment against the light. The door closed, and Ian stood up. “God bless thee, Silvia,” he said softly, and squeezed her shoulder briefly in farewell.

He didn’t, of course, go far. Only into the shadows under a nearby larch.

“Silvia?” Gabriel called, peering into the dark. “Is thee here? Mrs. Brant said thee had gone out.”

“I am here,” she said. Her tone was perfectly neutral, and Ian thought it had cost her quite a bit to make it so.

Her husband stumped through the hay-strewn mud to the target tree and bent to peer at her in the shadow.

“May I sit down?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Say what thee must.”

He snorted briefly, but laid his crutches on the ground and straightened up.

“Well, then. I wish the girls to remain here. They wish this, too,” he added, after a pause.

“Of course they do,” she said, her voice colorless. “They loved thee. They have constant hearts; they still love thee. Did thee tell them that thee has married again, that thee has another family?”

There was silence, and after a moment of it, she laughed. Bitterly.

“And did thee tell them that thee would have nothing to do with their sister? Or has thee changed thy mind regarding Chastity?”

“Has thee changed thy mind regarding
our
marriage? I can have two wives, as I said. Perhaps thee could find a place nearby, where thee could live with the…the child, and Prudence and Patience would be able to visit. And I, of course,” he added.

“I have not changed my mind,” she said, her voice cold as the night. “I will not be thy concubine, nor will I let Patience and Prudence remain here.”

“I am far from rich, but I can—I
will
—manage the expense,” he began, but she cut him off, leaping to her feet, visible now in the faint light from the house.

“Damn the
‘expense,’ 
” she said, furious. “After what thee said, thee expects that I will—”

“What did I say?” he demanded. “If I spoke out of shock—”

“Thee said I was a whore.”

“I did not use that word!”

“Thee didn’t have to! Thy meaning was clear enough.”

“I didn’t mean…” Gabriel began, and she rounded on him, eyes blazing.

“Oh, but thee
did
mean it. And whatever thee says now, thee would still mean it. If I were to go to thy bed, thee would wilt from thinking of the men who had come before thee, and be consumed with yet more anger against me for causing thy disgrace.”

She snorted, steam rising sudden from her nostrils.

“And thee would wonder whether those men were preferable to thee. Worry did I think of any of them when I touched thy body, did I think thee weak and disgusting. I
know
thee, Gabriel Hardman, and by this time, I know a good deal about other men, too. And thee dares…thee
dares
!…” She was shouting now and could be heard from the barn, surely. “Thee dares to tell me it’s godly and acceptable that thee should take more than one woman to thy bed, only because thee lives with folk who do such things!”

Gabriel was pale with anger, but had himself under control. He wanted his daughters.

“I apologize for what I said,” he said, between clenched teeth. “I spoke out of shock. How can thee blame me for speaking wildly?”

“Thee was not speaking wildly when thee said thee would take Prudence and Patience from me,” she replied.

“I am their father, and I
will
keep them!”

“No, thee will not,” she said evenly, and turned toward Ian’s tree. “Will he?”

Ian stepped out from behind the tree.

“No,” he said mildly. “He won’t.”

Gabriel licked his lips and huffed out a great white sigh.

“What are we to do, then, Silvia?” he said, plainly struggling for calm. “Thee knows the girls want to be with me as much as I wish to be with them. Whatever thee thinks of me at present—how can thee be so heartless as to take them from me?”