Into the Wilderness (16 page)

Elizabeth
digested this in silence, surprising herself. Even a week ago she thought she
would have had much to say, and perhaps in anger, but even simple things were
now so complicated that she saw the wisdom of holding back with her opinion.
Soon the opportunity to ask more questions had passed: they were walking
uphill, and breathing became an issue. Elizabeth began to think that her idea
of exercise had been rather a tame one. The lanes and walks around Oakmere at
their very worst were no more than wet and muddy; even the walking holidays she
had taken with her aunt had been docile by comparison.

Off
the track, the snow had drifted up to Elizabeth's hips in some places, but the
path they walked was wind scoured and well enough broken. Still, it was rough
going, and Elizabeth's admiration for Hannah was considerable: she moved
lightly and quickly while Elizabeth struggled along behind her with the basket
Curiosity had packed so thoroughly. The freezing air burned in her lungs, while
her fingers and toes, well wrapped in wool and leather and fur, still grew
wooden with the cold.

They
had been walking uphill for what seemed like more than an hour when the wind
picked up and began to blow, and just as suddenly, the sunlight flickered and
faded, the clouds deepening in color to a deep gray—green. Hannah paused to
look up, and then back toward Elizabeth.

"A
storm," Elizabeth said. "I hope it's not much farther."

"Lake
in the Clouds," Hannah responded and gestured with her chin.

"Lake
in the Clouds?"

"This
place," Hannah explained. "The Kahnyen’keháka name for it."

The
wooded ridge they had been following turned inward and then ended abruptly in a
jumble of outcroppings, snowy evergreens, and granite slabs thrusting like
splayed fingers out into the open air. This jutting shoulder of the mountain
curved inward as if to protect the hidden glen Elizabeth now found before her.

A
little breath of surprise and wonder left her in a warm rush. Roughly
triangular in shape, the glen was about half a mile in length, and perhaps half
a mile in breadth at the widest point. On one side cliffs rose up in a flat
sheet of marbled gray rock; on the other, the mountain's shoulder dropped away
into the precipice. At the far end of the glen, a stream fell thirty feet from
a fissure high on the rock face. It cascaded in an icy rush over a clutch of
boulders and then fell again into a gorge that ran the length of the glen to
narrow and disappear in the forest. From where they stood, Elizabeth could see
the waters boiling lazily in a deep pool encased in ribbons of ice.

On
one side, the banks of the gorge were built of layers of stone slabs like
steps, which leveled into a series of terraces at the broadest point of the
vale. There, in a grove of beech, pine, and blue spruce, a log cabin stood with
its front porch facing the waterfall. It was low and solid, built in an
L—shape, its deep roof scalloped with snow and dripping thick fingers of ice.
Smoke curled above two massive field stone chimneys; lamplight glowed warmly from
cracks in the shutters.

Snow
began to fall in thick waves, large flakes twirling in the last of the light,
disappearing into the trees and melting into the rushing water. As if in
response, the door of the cabin opened and cast a slanted rectangle of butter—yellow
light into the growing dark.

* * *

He
wasn't there; she sensed his absence as clearly as she took in woodsmoke,
tallow candles, dried apples, roasting turkey, and the strong smells of animal
skins, bear grease, and human beings. Elizabeth blinked at the brightness of
firelight reflected in wood and the glowing colors of the room.

Hawkeye
seemed to be everywhere at once, setting Hannah a series of quick chores,
calling out questions, and making Elizabeth reacquainted with Chingachgook. The
old man greeted Elizabeth cheerfully from his chair by the fire. Around his
shoulders was a blanket woven in geometric patterns in red, white, and gray.
Still a little breathless, Elizabeth accepted the chair across from him.

"The
storm came up fast," Chingachgook said.

Hawkeye
nodded. "Good thing you two made tracks."

Elizabeth
held her hands out toward the fire and smiled at him. "I expect your
stories are worth a bit of a walk."

He
laughed. "Well, I like to think they are. But if not, then Falling—Day
will put a meal on the table that should make up for the trouble. Here she is,
and Many-Doves with her."

Anyone
would know them for mother and daughter. Identical in height, slender but wiry,
Falling—Day was a sparser, more compact version of Many-Doves . There were
twistings of gray in the long braids that hung over her shoulders, and fans of
deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but she moved like a
younger woman, and there was a quickness in her that made her stand out; she
reminded Elizabeth of her aunt Merriweather.

It
was the smile that drew the final link: Falling—Day's resemblance to Hannah was
unmistakable. Nathaniel's mother—in—law, then, and the younger woman—perhaps
twenty years old—his wife's sister. Many-Doves ' face was less guarded than her
mother's; curiosity and wariness, hope and caution, were all there, in quick
succession. Elizabeth could not remember ever seeing a young woman for whom
nature had done more. There was an elegance to her bearing that was outdone
only by the perfect proportions of her face, and the fine set of her eyes.

Elizabeth
murmured things she thought she should say, and took their hands in turn,
trying not to stare at the younger woman.

"You
can call me Abigail, if you prefer," said Many-Doves . She took Elizabeth's
hand firmly and met her eyes without flinching.

"Don't
let Otter hear you do it, though," said Hannah, who had come up behind
Elizabeth. "He won't like it."

"It's
my name and not Otter's," said Many-Doves . "And it's none of your
business, either." She added something in Kahnyen’keháka that made Hannah
wrinkle her nose in protest.

"Enough,"
said Chingachgook behind them in strong tones." Speak English now, or
you'll offend our guest." In the firelight Elizabeth noted how his tattoos
seemed to flicker and move: a snake wound its way across the bony protrusions
of his cheekbones, over the bridge of his nose, and around one eye to his
forehead, where it disappeared into the sparse white hair at his temple. She
wondered if Nathaniel was tattooed, as well, and then put this thought away.

It
seemed for a moment as though Many-Doves would take offense: a flurry of
irritation flitted across her face. But then she smiled reluctantly and turned
to follow her mother into the next room, with Hannah in tow.

"Might
I help?" Elizabeth called after her, but Many-Doves fluttered a hand
behind her in a gesture of dismissal, and Elizabeth turned back to the men.
Hawkeye had taken up a stool and was oiling a trap with a feather dipped in a
strong—smelling grease; Chingachgook was braiding leather strips. Elizabeth
looked around, self—conscious in her curiosity but unable to do otherwise. She
found herself in a large common room, dominated by the hearth at one end, the
other extreme lost in shadows. Every inch of space was dedicated to some
purpose. On a large table stacked with all manner of equipment for the casting
of bullets and gun—cleaning, a trap had been taken apart. Under a shuttered
window, another table dominated by a large oil lamp was covered with papers and
books. Bookcases stood to either side. The corners were lined with barrels of
various sizes, a churn, stretching panels, a spinning wheel, and a small loom.
Pelts were tacked on the walls and piled in the corners: Elizabeth recognized
fox, and the great tawny fur of what she took to be a panther, and another,
darker one of a small bear. Set up in a neat row, furs dried inside out
stretched over individual boards. Hawkeye kept up a running commentary and told
her what she wanted to know: the reddish—brown pelts were marten, the luxuriant
dark ones, fisher.

In
the center of the room there were rocking chairs and stools and a long board
flanked by benches, set for a meal. From the rafters hung corn by braided
husks, squashes strung together like outlandish necklaces, wild onions, apples,
and great bundles of dried greenery and herbs Elizabeth could not begin to
name.

On
the mantelpiece there was a basket of sewing, and one of beadwork. Elizabeth
picked up the volumes she found there one by one: Defoe's
A Journal of the Plague Year
, a thumbed newsprint copy of the
Declaration of the Rights of Man
in the
original French, and even more surprising, a volume of poetry by Robert Burns.

"She
was a great reader," Hawkeye said behind Elizabeth. He came up behind her
to touch a small painting of a woman in an oval frame.

"I
see that," Elizabeth said. "But I wonder how she managed to get
this—" She picked up the Burns. i"I wouldn't have thought that he
could have come so far. Most people in England aren't familiar with this poet
at all."

"Won't
give him the time of day, you mean," Hawkeye corrected her, but with a
smile. "The upstart, the scallywag. Ain't that what you're thinking?"

"Well.
. ." Elizabeth put the volume back down again. "He is a bit . . .
incendiary. How did your wife come by these volumes? And these others—"

"She
was a Scot, and they stick together like their confounded porridge. Hardly a
traveler ever came through Paradise from outwards without a parcel for Cora
from somebody, and half the time it was books."

Elizabeth
went up on tiptoe to look at the painting more closely. Hawkeye put the
portrait into her hands. It was simply drawn, but strong sense of the woman was
caught in it. She had a clear, high brow, dark hair, and hazel eyes.

"Nathaniel
has his mother's coloring."

"And
he's as quick as she was, and just as stubborn."

"With
definite dislikes," agreed Elizabeth.

Chingachgook
spoke up, his face creasing into a smile so thoroughly wrinkled that his eyes
disappeared. "My daughter—in—law didn't like the English much."

"But
she made an exception in your son's case," Elizabeth noted to him. Both
men looked surprised at this, and then Hawkeye laughed, as if the idea of
calling himself an Englishman was something that would never have occurred to
him.

"Or
are you Scots, too?" she amended. "I expect your name can be traced
back to the Normans, in either case.

"I
was born in these mountains.

"But
your parents must have come from England?"

"I
was given to understand they came from the far north of England," Hawkeye
said slowly. "But I don't remember them. I'm a son of the Mahicans.

Elizabeth
was suddenly aware of Chingachgook, and she realized her mistake. "Of
course," she murmured.

"I
never knew any other kin," Hawkeye continued. "I didn't have any
English until I was ten, and I don't suppose I knew I was white, either. Still
comes as a shock, sometimes."

Hawkeye
dusted the carved frame with his shirtsleeve.

"How
did you meet her?"

"Her
da was a colonel assigned to Albany. She followed him to the Mohawk Valley. We
helped her out of a fix or two, back in '57."

"That
must have been the war with France."

Chingachgook
had been silent, but he spoke up, his voice hoarse. "Most of our wars have
been with the English or the French, or against them. We don't much have the
energy to fight among ourselves anymore."

Elizabeth
was beginning to see why these people would want to buy Hidden Wolf Mountain
from her father. For all of their lives, and the lives of their parents and
possibly their grandparents before them, they had known nothing but war and
sorrow, and most of that at the hands of the English. A place of their own, the
opportunity to live as they must, from the land, with a degree of security they
had never known: it seemed very reasonable to her.

The
door flew open with a bang, and two dogs galloped into the room, tongues
lolling. Behind them, a young Indian materialized in a swirl of snow and cold
air, blood trickling from a wound on his forehead. He stood in the door, legs
spread, raised his rifle high, put back his head, and let out a whoop that
echoed through the room and made Elizabeth jump.

"Otter!"
Hawkeye strode across the room. "You'll scare Miz Elizabeth to death,
she'll think you're after her scalp."

But
Elizabeth had already collected herself and stood before the hearth with what
she hoped was a calm air, although she could feel her heart racing. She had
seen, almost immediately, that the high—pitched yip was one of satisfaction and
pride.

"You
got the moose!" Hannah had rushed in from the other room with Falling—Day
and Many-Doves close behind.

Otter
laughed and tugged at Hannah's braids. "Saw the tracks, did you? Nathaniel
got him."

"Did
you forget about your rifle and butt him with that hard head of yours?"
asked Many-Doves .

Falling—Day
made an attempt to examine Otter's wound, but he waved her away impatiently,
muttering at her in Kahnyen’keháka. Then he caught sight of Elizabeth, and
stopped suddenly. A guarded look passed over his face, to be replaced, slowly,
by a more open and friendly one as Hawkeye made his introduction.