Into the Wilderness (80 page)

"Let
us go," she said again.

"Elizabeth,
lass," he said softly. "Ye can barely stand for weariness. Ye're
covered wi' bruises that wad lay the toughest sodjer low. Ever' bone in your
face shines through, and I'd wager it wad be no job worth mentionin' tae count
your ribs, for bye I hae no door ye mean what ye say, for ye've the bluidy
heart of a lion—"

She
began to interrupt him, but he squeezed her shoulder again and lowered his
voice another tone.

"What
e'er it is ye've got behind ye these few days on the trail, lass, it has left
scars for all tae see, and others festerin' deep inside—ye ne edna contradict
me. I may be an auld man, but I'm no' yet blinn. Pay me mind, lass. Ye mun hae
a day's rest, or there wilma be a wife for Nathaniel tae come hame tae."

All
the reasons they must move on, now, immediately, were clear and ordered in
Elizabeth's mind, but when she opened her mouth, something else entirely came
out.

"I
cannot let him die alone and without me," she said, looking between them.
"I will not. Don't you understand, both of you? I am responsible."

"Elizabeth,"
Robbie said hoarsely. The tears in his eyes took her by surprise. Suddenly she
was overcome by the urge to bury her face in his coat and weep until she was
emptied of it all, all the weakness and doubt and softness inside of her. So
she could get on with what she must do. She loved Robbie for his tears, but she
could not indulge him, or herself.

Otter
had been leaning against the wall, and he righted himself. "We'll walk
till noon," he proposed. "And then make camp, if you'll agree to rest
then, until tomorrow morning."

She
could see it on their faces: this was the best she could hope for. And without
them, she could not find her way to Canada. "You think he is being cared
for?" she asked finally.

Otter
nodded without hesitation. "Hen'en."
Yes
.

"Better
by far wi’ the Kahnyen’keháka than wi' a Boston surgeon," Robbie
confirmed.

"Until
midday, then," she agreed. And Elizabeth walked out of the shelter and the
camp without a backward glance, glad to have Treenie beside her again, and
these good men at her back.

Men,
Elizabeth concluded, could be counted on to be childish and unreasonable at the
most awkward times. They had been on the trail for almost a week, and now, less
than two hours from the village where they hoped to find Nathaniel alive and
well, they had decided to make camp where they stood. Without her approval and
simply ignoring every argument she could muster. Her attempts at rational
discussion were dismissed: Otter was tense and Robbie strangely
uncommunicative. Elizabeth sat in front of the fire and brooded, cleaning her
musket with a rough quickness that made Robbie wince openly.

"I
could go on alone," she said when she could be still no longer. "I
managed on my own in the bush for days, I'm sure I could manage two hours in
terrain such as this."

There
was no response. Surprised, Elizabeth looked up and saw Otter and Robbie
approaching a man at the edge of their camp.

He
was Kahnyen’keháka, and from the look of him, a scout. Of middle age, he was
not overly tall but built as wide and strong as an oak. The man was dressed
much as Otter was dressed, but he had more weapons on his person, and there was
something else that made Elizabeth's irritation and preoccupation wither away
immediately: his scalp was shaved clean with the exception of a long shank of
hair knotted at his crown, gleaming blue—black in the twilight, and trailing an
ornament of turkey feathers. From the belt around his waist there was another
set of feathers, these strangely matted and dull in color: dark and lighter browns,
one shot with dirty silver streaks, another much paler, with a definite curl to
the ends. Seeing them clearly, Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry with fear. In
her lap, the musket felt awkward and heavy and completely useless.

But
he was Kahnyen’keháka, she reminded herself. A cousin of some kin to Otter,
without a doubt. And neither Robbie nor Otter appeared frightened. She could
hear only snatches of their conversation, on her side of the fire, but the tone
was calm. She had no wish to come closer, and the scout apparently did not find
her of interest in the least: with a glance that took in every detail of the
camp and rested only very briefly on her face, the man turned and left them
without another sound.

It
took Elizabeth another minute to realize that this quiet and imposing stranger
had accomplished something which had eluded her.

"What
are you doing?" she asked Otter, although she could see for herself that
he was breaking camp.

"The
sachem sends word that they want us in the village now," he answered.

She
stood, and watched them working for another few heartbeats. "They have
been watching us?"

Otter
grinned at her, and she saw now that his tension had been replaced by relief
and anticipation. "All day," he confirmed.

Later,
Elizabeth promised herself, she would apologize to these men for her
irritability and lack of observation. But at the moment she could not find the
words. A thought occurred to her, but she had to clear her throat several times
before she could make herself produce the question.

"He
is there?"

"Aye,
lassie," said Robbie. "He is. Alive, and on the mend."

* * *

In
the dark she had little sense of the village. First there were the fields with
neat rows of young plants, and then a small corral, where a young boy stood
sentry. Around him a number of dogs lifted themselves from the ground as if
suspended by wires, propelled by a low growling. Treenie froze beside Elizabeth
and met them with her own rumbling, the fur on her hackles rising. The boy
spoke a short word and the village dogs collapsed again, their eyes keen and at
odds with their obedience.

They
turned toward the center of the village, where the night was split open by a
great fire, and a singing such as Elizabeth had never heard.

"Stay
close," Robbie said softly.

She
nodded. The rush of her blood made her fingers jerk and tingle, the knot in her
belly pulling tighter with every pulse and echo of the drums. Close against her
thigh, the red dog's trembling was like her own, rumbling up from the marrow,
as if every bone had been hollowed out and filled with glassy shards of panic
and agitation.
He's here, he's here, he's
here
. Almost, almost she could hear the voices singing what rang so
persistently in her head: Nathaniel is here; Nathaniel is alive.

There
was sudden silence when they walked into the open area where the fire burned.
Hands stilled on drums, and the dust settled slowly around the dancers' feet.
Elizabeth blinked hard as her eyes adjusted to it: the great leaping light that
cast everyday browns and tans into a spectrum of golds, set off here and there
with a splash of crimson or green. Around them perhaps two hundred pairs of
dark eyes, waiting. Only the fire spoke now, with a crackle and low roar.

A
single figure came forward. He was wrapped in a blanket, and wore an elaborate
headdress on his shaved scalp.

"The
sachem," Robbie said quietly to Elizabeth. "Stone—Splitter, by
name."

Of
all the men, the sachem was the only one to wear a headdress which included the
antlers of a deer. But even to Elizabeth it was clear that his authority did
not come from his ornaments or by virtue of his age—there were older men—but
from a singular intensity that brought him everyone's attention. Now he was
looking at Otter with obvious pleasure and satisfaction.

"We
welcome our brother Tawine, who has been long absent from our fire, and we
welcome our friend Yotsitsyonta, who finally honors us with his company after
so many years." He spoke Kahnyen’keháka, but in a slow, measured way that
Elizabeth could follow, for the most part. The sachem paused, and Elizabeth
felt his gaze on her, quizzical but reserved.

"You
are the wife of Nathaniel, whom we call Okwaho—rowakeka?"

"Yes,"
Elizabeth said, and then more loudly: "Hen'en."

"He
is a good man, and our brother," said the sachem, and there was murmuring
around the fire. "He has told us to expect you."

Elizabeth's
throat closed tight with this, the certain knowledge that he was alive. She
nodded.

Stone—Splitter
said, "Tell us why you ran away and left your husband to die alone in the
Endless Mountains."

Elizabeth
looked to Otter, unsure if she had understood correctly. She saw by his face
that she had.

"I
did not leave my husband to die," she said, finding a voice that was
stronger and louder than she expected. "I went only to fetch RobbieYotsi'tsyonta."
She repeated his name in Kahnyen’keháka. "I left to get help, so that
Nathaniel would not die."

An
old woman came forward, her tangled mass of bone, bead, and shell necklaces and
ornaments rattling with each step. In spite of the great age which drained her
face of flesh, she had eyes as bright and cutting as chips of obsidian against
sand. She came close enough for Elizabeth to catch the smell of her, the sharp
tang of sweat and dried herbs and tallow, bear grease and buckskin. And she saw
distrust in her narrowed eyes, and dislike. Why this should be, Elizabeth did
not know, but she drew in a breath to steady herself.

The
old woman was examining Elizabeth's face openly.

"You
have been beaten," she said. "Did you shoot a husband who raised a
hand to you when you were disobedient, and then run, leaving him to the hungry
ghosts who walk the forest?"

"No!"
Elizabeth felt Otter stirring beside her, and she turned to him. "I cannot
say this in Kahnyen’keháka," she whispered. "Please translate for me.
Tell them that Nathaniel never raised a hand to me in anger, and I did not run
from him. I could not manage on my own," she finished, cursing the way her
voice trembled. "Tell them, please."

Her
mind moved with preternatural slowness, one thought repeating itself again and
again: that unless she answered these people to their satisfaction, Nathaniel
would stay hidden from her. To admit she had shot him, even in error, was a
chance she could not take. While Otter translated, she watched the faces around
her, searching the crowd once again for a familiar or friendly face, and found
none.

"Irtakohsaks
tells us a different story," said the sachem.

Irtakohsaks
. Cat—Eater.
Elizabeth started at this name. She had completely forgotten about Richard, and
what he might say and do to gain his own ends. Beside her, Otter had come to
life; she could feel him crackling with energy.

When
she met his eye, she saw how angry he was. "Ask them if my husband holds
me responsible for his wounds."

Otter
did this, but before he had finished the old woman's voice rose shrilly.

The
sachem held up a hand to delay her. "He does not," he answered,
looking at Elizabeth rather than Otter. "It is Irtakohsaks who spoke to us
of this."

Otter's
indignation burst out of him.

"Irtakohsaks
speaks lies," he said. "Irtakohsaks was once a child of this fire,
but he turned his back on the Kahnyen’keháka long ago. He led the o seronni
soldiers to us and they murdered us in our beds. He bound Sky—Wound—Round like
an animal and forced him to march. Would you take his word above the word of
Wolf—Running—Fast, our brother, who accuses this woman of nothing? Irtakohsaks
does not know this woman. He is not worthy to take this woman's name in his
mouth."

Amazed,
Elizabeth listened as Robbie translated at a whisper beside her. She had not
imagined Otter to be capable of such a speech, or thought of herself in such
terms. Her impulse was to drop her head in embarrassment, but there was a
stronger urge, too, one of self—preservation, and she kept her gaze firmly on
the sachem, who gave Otter his whole attention.

"My
grandmother," Otter continued. "My grandfather, my family. May I
speak for this woman, who is my sister? I ask for this privilege because her
husband, my brother, cannot speak for her."

"I
can speak for myself," Elizabeth muttered, but Robbie's hand tightened on
her shoulder, and she bit her lip.

Otter
glanced at Elizabeth. "Grandmother is right, Bone—in—Her—Back has been
beaten. But not by our brother. She tells the truth: she was on her way to find
help for her husband when she was attacked."

With
the realization that Otter was about to tell the story that Elizabeth knew no
words for, she felt her skin rise up in fear. "Please," she said
softly, but Otter ignored her.

"To
keep her from her errand, he beat her until she bled," Otter said, his
voice certain and strong. "And she killed him, with her own hands she
killed him, in order to return to her husband."

"Did
you see this?" asked the sachem. "Did you see her kill this
man?"

"No,"
said Otter. "But I saw the man, and I saw what he did to her."