Into the Wilderness (87 page)

"You
are
not
her father." Nathaniel's
voice filled the long house "Sings—from—Books was my wife when she bore
the child."

"Sings—from—Books
put you aside and took another," said Made—of—Bones.

"Did
he tell you that?" Nathaniel asked. "You believed him?"

"My
daughter falling—Day told me that," said Made—of—Bones.
 
"I believed her."

Richard
shot Nathaniel a triumphant look.

A
wave of nausea washed over
Elizabeth
,
and she swallowed it back down, ruthlessly.

"You
cannot take the child from the home she knows and loves," she said. own
"Away from her family."

"We
are her family," said Made—of—Bones. "Her grandmother and her uncle
and aunt can come with her, and live here at the hearth where they
belong."

Nathaniel's
eyes narrowed in Richard's direction. When he spoke again, it was in English. "I
see it now. You'll give the old woman back her daughter and her daughter's
daughters, and then you've got the Kahnyen'kebaka out of
Paradise
.
Do they know that's what you want? To get the last of their people out of your
sight? You claim her as your daughter." Nathaniel's mouth twisted in
disgust. "If you could you would gladly kill every one of these people in
their beds."

"That
is not true," Richard said, hoarsely.

"You
watched that happen before, at Barktown."

"What
happened at Barktown was not my doing. If they believed that it was, I would be
long dead." There was no sign of emotion on Richard's face, no movement at
all, but every line in his body vibrated with tension. The clan mothers were
watching him, but he seemed to have forgotten them.
Elizabeth
was suddenly struck with a memory
of her brother, interrupted at cards when he had his last shilling on a wager,
consumed by the game and his own desperation.

Nathaniel
said in Kahnyen’keháka: "I don't know what Falling—Day advised my wife,
but I do know that Sings—from—Books never left my mother's home or my hearth. I
claim her child as my own in the Kahnyen’keháka way, and according to the laws
of the O'seronni. And I dare anyone here to prove otherwise.

"Wait,"
said Made—of—Bones. She turned her attention to
Elizabeth
, poked at her with one broad finger.
"Cat—Eater cannot take the child," she said grudgingly, "but you
could send her to us. You have told us of the ways of the O'seronni, who have
taken your land from you and given it to a man because you chose him to lie
with. You see our ways are not so simple—minded. Would you not have the child
raised here, where she can learn to be a woman?"

Elizabeth
flushed with a new anger, looking into the old woman's dark eyes. "I am a
woman," she said clearly. "And I have things to teach her."

"You
cannot teach her to be Kahnyen’keháka!" said Made—of—Bones.

"That
is for her grandmother and aunt to do,"
Elizabeth
agreed. "They are with her,
too." She drew in a sharp breath, and let it out. "It's about that,
isn't it? Not so much about Hannah, but about getting your daughter back."

Made—of—Bones
said, "I had a good man, and I bred him five sons and three daughters.
Healthy, strong children. All of my sons died as warriors, in O'seronni wars.
Two of my daughters are gone. One at the hands of Red—coats, while she was big
with child. The other, the mother of Splitting—Moon, of the O'seronni spotted
sickness. There were once many women at my hearth, but now there is only myself
left in my line, and my granddaughter, Splitting—Moon. Can you not understand
what it is to want my child and her children here, where they belong?" She
looked at
Elizabeth
,
and then at Nathaniel. Suddenly her face hardened, the corner of her mouth
turned down. "Perhaps not," she said, her voice dropping.
"Perhaps you cannot imagine this. The loss of a child is a pain you will
never know."

Elizabeth
caught up Nathaniel's hand, and jerked it, hard.

"Let
me answer," she said hoarsely. "Please." She stood like that
with him until she felt his reluctance break.

The
words were there, she could say them: But
he
But he can father children; I carry his child.
It would break the back of
the only argument Richard had which meant anything to these women; it would
resolve the issue of Nathaniel's manhood. She felt color flooding her breast,
moving up to her hairline. Nathaniel was looking at her, they were all looking
at her. She dropped her gaze to the ground, cleared her throat, and tried to
summon the words.

When
she looked up, Throws—Far was with them. He had stepped out of the deepest
shadows into the firelight, appearing like an apparition. With a nod to each of
the clan mothers, he addressed She—Remembers.

"May
I speak?" Into the terrible tension around the hearth, he brought a quiet
voice, without anger or threat.

She—Remembers
murmured her agreement, while the other two simply nodded. Made—of—Bones threw
a nervous look in Nathaniel's direction.

Richard
stood motionless, all the anger in his eyes suddenly masked. There was a
stillness in him, the same stillness she had seen on the shore of the
Hudson
while he watched
her say goodbye to Nathaniel so many weeks ago. He could bide his time, when it
served his purposes. His intent and resolve were as clear and marked as the
streaks of paint on Throws—Far's face.

"I
came today because He—Who—Dreams summoned me to help. He sees more than one
kind of sickness in this man, who is both my brother and a stranger to me. And
so I speak, although I see that he does not want my help."

There
was no tone of complaint in Throws—Far's manner or words, just simple
statements put forth with great deliberation.

"This
man has never lived among the Kahnyen’keháka," said Throws—Far. "Even
when his body was here, his heart was back with the O'seronni. He could not be
one of us. He could not forgive me for putting the white ways behind me."

Richard
was not looking at his brother, but his face trembled and the line of his jaw
hardened. A drop of sweat fell onto his shirt and was followed by another.

Throws—Far
directed his comments to the clan mothers, as if they were alone. "Even
now he will not see me. There is a hardness in his heart that makes him blind.
But he can hear me. I can tell him that I have four fine sons and two daughters
who make me proud. He is their uncle. He knows this now, and can never put this
knowledge from him."

The
wind rose and shook the bark roof of the long house The night was all sound:
the drum and rattle, crickets and the faraway echo of the wolf, and above it
all the prayers of the faith keeper, drifting into the night sky for the sake
of a man who stood here, his face glimmering with sweat and his eyes blank with
resignation.

Throws—Far
listened to the faint voice of He—Who—Dreams for a time, and then his face
cleared of this preoccupation and he turned back to the clan mothers.

"A
warrior can have a father's heart. So I ask Cat—Eater, would you do to this
child what was done to you? Would you destroy a child to avenge our
mother?"

Richard's
head snapped up, and for the first time
Elizabeth
saw him focus on the man who stood opposite him. His face flushed a vivid red,
his mouth twisted in indignation and an undisguised pain.

Throws—Far
met Richard's stare calmly. "Do not let the bitterness in your heart rule
your mind. Put Hidden Wolf behind you."

"Who
are you to tell me what to do and how to live?" Richard asked woodenly.

Throws—Far
blinked. He opened his mouth to speak again, but his words were uncertain, and
even his voice was different, higher and younger: "I am your
brother," he said in English. "I was once called Samuel."

* * *

Just
above their sleeping platform, there was a break in the roof of the Wolf long
house that would displease Made—of—Bones greatly. Had she known of it, she
would have sent one of her grandsons immediately to climb to the roof and
repair it. But she didn't know, and Nathaniel was glad of the view of the
heavens, on their last night with the Kahnyen’keháka.

He
lay on his back watching the stars in the sky. They had a knowing glitter, like
the eyes of the great cats when they lie in wait in the bush. Cold and hot all
at once, something too bright to comprehend.

Elizabeth
shifted her head to a more comfortable position on Nathaniel's shoulder. She
was nowhere near sleep, which surprised him given the long events of the
evening. There was a hollow feeling under his ribs when he thought about it,
what Todd had tried to do. What he was still trying to do and would die trying
to do, if he persisted.

"It's
over now," she said softly, reading his thoughts, or the tension in his
shoulders.

He
let a finger trail over her temple and down the side of her face. "You
don't think the man has changed because his brother tried to speak some sense
to him?" He didn't like the bitterness in his voice, but it was there all
the same.

"People
change," she said. "I have changed."

Nathaniel
grunted. "Tomorrow morning when we take this business before the sachem,
then we will see how changed Richard Todd is."

She
rubbed her cheek on his chest, put her mouth softly against his neck. His skin
flared in an arc from the touch of her lips to his groin, and he turned
carrying her with him. Richard Todd was banished: in the faint light of the
moon and the embers of the hearth fire there was only the outline of her face,
her sweet, strong face in the shape of a heart. In the shape of his own heart.

He
kissed her cheek and found it wet. "Why do you weep?" he asked,
astounded.

"I
want to go home."

"We
start tomorrow."

She
nodded, but she was not with him in her mind.

"Tell
me," he said against her mouth. "What is it?"

"Nathaniel.
It is over. You needn't fear Richard's claims about you—they are not true. And
there is proof, now." She took his hand and carried it down to press it
flat on her lower belly. "There," she whispered, her forehead against
his. "We have made a child, you and I."

At
first the words were as meaningless as birdsong. He heard himself draw in
breath and let it out again. Under the curve of his palm her warm skin rose and
fell on the tide of her breath. It was her face that told him clearly, the joy
in it and the fear in equal measure.

"Are
you certain?"

"It
has been six weeks since I bled—" she whispered. He put a thumb against
her lips, and his forehead against hers.

In
that instant Nathaniel knew the depths of his self—doubt. Exposed suddenly to
light and air, the fear that he had lived with for ten years simply withered
away to be replaced by an elation that clenched his heart, and would never let
go.

He
said something he had never admitted to himself before: "I didn't believe
it was possible."

She
was pushing closer, winding her arms and legs around him to make a cradle of
herself. With her voice and with the body which sheltered his child,
Elizabeth
rocked the
breath of hope back into him.

"I
never doubted you," she said softly. "Never for a moment."

The
Strawberry Festival ceremonies required a great deal of preparation from the
Kahnyen’keháka of the Wolf long house so that well before dawn hearth fires
were stirred and torches lit. Half asleep,
Elizabeth
lay quietly listening to a muted
argument between Crow—Flying, Spotted—Fox and their son, Little—Kettle, who
would be taking part for the first time in the Feather Dance. He had particular
notions about his face paint, it seemed, which did not suit. He was threatened
with a consultation with the clan mother and the conversation took an abrupt
end, just as Made—of—Bones appeared beside their sleeping platform with her
usual bowl for Nathaniel.

Her
mouth was set in a harder line than usual, and she did not meet
Elizabeth
's eye. The
outcome of the discussions in the Bear long house clearly did not please her in
the least, for while she was always short and sometimes rude, she had never
before failed to respond to a greeting.

"Splitting—Moon
will prepare enough medicine for your journey," she said to Nathaniel as
he sat up to take the bowl. "Bone—in—Her—Back can make an infusion?"

"I
can,"
Elizabeth
answered for herself

Nathaniel
drank, and then handed the bowl back to the old woman. For a moment they both
held it fast, his strong brown fingers and hers, a few shades darker and
twisted with age, the nails ridged. "There is no way to repay you for the
gift of my good health," Nathaniel said.
Elizabeth
watched Made—of—Bones take in this
message
: I am thankful, but I will not
deliver my daughter to you
.