Sorceress (13 page)

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25

Quechee - the Place of Quick Whirling Falls

Our roving was stopped by a tall man standing by the white-water rush and surge of a tumbling river. I could see he was Pennacook by the way he dressed his hair and the markings on his skin. He came forward when he saw us, as though he had been waiting.

‘You are Eyes of a Wolf.’ He stepped away from the roar of the water, his hand raised in greeting. He was older than I first thought, and he limped, shorter in one leg than the other. ‘I am Sparks Fire.’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘I was told in dream of your coming and guided to this place.’ He turned and pointed. High on the bluff behind him, an eagle perched on the topmost branch of a white pine. ‘I knew Jaybird when he was a little boy, before the sickness came to his village. His father’s band and mine would join to fish the falls.’ He smiled and his eyes creased in remembered laughter. ‘He vexed me greatly, for he was always wanting to join in our games, although he was so much younger. I called him Little Brother, so you will be my sister.’ He looked down at me, recollected merriment laced with sadness. ‘I grieve for your loss. Your sorrow is my sorrow.’

He said no more. We both looked up. A flapping of wings announced the eagle’s departure. It wheeled in the sky above us and flew into the fiery heart of the setting sun.

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We wintered in the camp of Sparks Fire’s Pennacook band. They welcomed us not as outcasts seeking refuge, but as kin. They gave freely of all they had: food, clothing and shelter. I bore the mark on my cheek, and space was made in the long house of the Wolf Clan. We lived as a family, Ephraim and me. Ephraim did not try to escape. How could he? The winter and the forest held him faster than any stockade. We were much farther north than we had been before and the weather was ever more bitter. I had not known where we would go when the boy and I commenced our wandering, but now I was glad to have found shelter in the warm smoky darkness where many families lived together.

We wanted for nothing. We were given furs for clothing and bed coverings. The band had food stored from the summer harvest, and game was plentiful in these vast northern woods. I fashioned new clothes for Ephraim, for his were torn, too thin for the winter and all but worn out. I made him fur-lined moccasins and a jerkin and leggings of soft deer skin. I made sure he was not treated as captive. He was accepted as my son. I taught him the words for all around him and Sparks Fire taught him to hunt. When he was not hunting, he was with the other boys, sliding in the snow and on the ice.

Often in the evening, Sparks Fire would come and share our hearth. If he had been hunting, he would bring this kill to us. He came to me as a brother. He was Wolf Clan, and members of the same clan are forbidden to marry. Besides, I was not looking for a husband. After my Jaybird, how could I think of another?

We shared our sorrow. He had lost his own wife to sickness the year before and he still carried the sadness with him. His daughter was married and lived with her mother’s clan. His son Naugatuck was with the war bands in the south. White Deer, Naugatuck’s wife, was with her mother’s clan. He had no other children living; his two younger ones had joined their mother on the path to the land in the west.

He lit his pipe from the embers. ‘Truly sickness takes more than musket balls, more and more each time it visits. This war is the last flowering of our power.’

‘How goes it?’

He drew on his pipe and then exhaled, regarding me through the smoke.

‘How am I to know? I am far from Wannalancet’s council fire.’

‘That may be so, but I see messengers come and go.’

Wannalancet, sachem of the Pennacook, was camped at Lake Winnipesaukee to the north of us. Runners from the south often stopped at our camp on their way to him. One of the messengers was Sparks Fire’s son Naugatuck. I had asked him to look for Black Fox with the Pentucket band and he said he would find him. I sent new moccasins. His would be worn through by now and these were lined with rabbit fur for it was the deepest part of winter. I told Naugatuck to tell him I did well.

Sparks Fire knew I feared for my son.

‘He is safe for the moment. It is the time of the shortest days, when the trees crack with coldness. No one fights now, not even the Englishmen. Naugatuck tells me the warriors are waiting for the sun to gain strength in the sky, then they will move against the English towns.’

We sat in silence then, thinking of our sons.

‘Why are you so far from Wannalancet?’

‘He is Christian. I would not convert to this new religion. To me, the Great Spirit is the Great Spirit, why should I call him God? To me he will always be Manitou.’

By mid-February, messengers were bringing news of fresh attacks, of towns sacked and abandoned along a wide frontier from north to south. By March, the time of ice melting, Indian bands had penetrated as far as Medfield and even threatened Boston itself. I knew my son would be in the thick of the fighting. Each fresh report made me sick for news of him.

Naugatuck came towards the end of March and told me that Black Fox had come through unharmed. He had to stay in the south, but he sent a token, a little fox head made from the same soft black stone used to fashion pipes. Black Fox had traded for the pipe stone and carved it in the idleness of the winter camps. He was ever clever with his hands, and it was cunningly made, with slanting eyes and a grinning mouth. It was bored behind the ears to be used as a toggle. This made me smile through my tears. Black Fox always liked to make things that could be used.

With the coming of spring, the village moved to their summer site. For a while, the war was forgotten in the stripping of the camp. The houses were dismantled, the covering mats untied and rolled, the poles left for next winter.

‘If there be another wintering here.’ Sparks Fire had come to help us. He was loading bundles on his travois. Now he looked thoughtful.

‘Why not? Wannalancet is neutral – besides, he’s Christian.’

I had finished making my pack and was fashioning one for Ephraim to carry. These removals meant a full load for everybody. Even children had to do their share.

‘That makes no difference. The Christian Indians have been taken from the praying towns and put all together on an island in Boston harbour.’ He tightened a strap viciously. ‘That is how the English repay loyalty.’

I prepared for this remove with all his uncertainty, and more. I remembered White Eagle’s words. The Indians could not possibly win this war. I had sought to escape it, but it was coming nearer. I had not thought to live with my own kind again, but if the Indians were defeated, and I was taken back, what would happen to me then?

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26

Second remove

The journey to their summer place took us up the Merrimack River and then by lesser rivers and porterage to the wide expanse of Lake Winnipesaukee.

The site lay behind a screen of willows on the south side of the lake. Within a day, the village was made again and all was peaceful as we picked up the rhythm of the year. I helped the women clear the gardens for planting. I worked with White Deer, Naugatuck’s young wife, Sparks Fire’s daughter-in-law. Ephraim ran with the other boys, playing stick ball and football out on the rough meadow, just as Black Fox had done, just as boys in my village in England had done so many years ago.

With the springtime digging and planting, it was sometimes easy to forget that there was a war going on. It was still far to the south of us, but messengers came and went with greater frequency and Sparks Fire was often called to Wannalancet’s camp at the other end of the lake.

As spring advanced to summer, the news from the south became increasingly gloomy. The runners no longer spoke of victory. They told of lack of powder and ammunition, of Mohawks creeping from the west now that attention was not on them. Above all they spoke of hunger and sickness, women too far from their home villages to grow anything; men too busy fighting to hunt. There was scant food in the towns attacked and what had been taken was fast running out. Starvation stalked the camps.

The war was like a seesaw and the English side was weighted with men, muskets and money. With no way for food to be replenished, it was only a matter of time before Metacom’s forces were defeated. And so it was to be. The lone messengers were replaced by ragged bands fleeing from the south. They told of a great defeat.

Now muster drums were beating through the Commonwealth towns. Hostile bands would be hunted, harried and hounded through the country. Any Indian refusing to surrender could expect no quarter. They would be killed. Those who surrendered could expect to be bound as servants or sold into slavery.

The tribes were scattering. Different bands were seeking to make separate peace. News came that Metacom had gone south to his homeland. He was being hunted through the swamps as boys hunt frogs. Then we heard that he was dead. His head had been taken to Plymouth and displayed on a pole as a warning and an act of vengeance.

Metacom’s death did not stop the persecution. Soldiers continued to hunt Indians down like rats in a barn. Many groups fled north to us, seeking refuge. These bands arrived weary from travel, with many sick and most half starved; we offered what help we could. It was a time of fear and weary waiting. Black Fox and Naugatuck had not come back. We scanned each group, asking for any news of them. All we heard was rumour and story. They were with this band or that band, with Metacom himself. They had been in this fight or that attack. Naugatuck had been wounded, but Black Fox had not a scratch on him, it was as if his life was charmed. Many of these stories were months old; some we’d heard before. When we asked their whereabouts now, or when they were coming back, we received blank stares and silence. Each one looked to their own survival. We would just have to wait it out.

Some of the bands held English captives. Most of these had already been redeemed, but I saw a few coming in with their captors hoping for ransom or exchange.

I kept out of the way of any white captives. I made it my business to see that they were given provision and treated well, but other than that I kept myself separate. I felt no loyalty to them, no bond of blood or kinship. To make myself known would require explanation, and once they knew my history I knew what their judgement of me would be.

They were not tethered or bound, they could come and go at will, but they were kept close by the forest. They did not congregate together but were scattered through the camp, staying with the families of those who had taken them.

Although I sought to avoid their company and took care to keep separate, I felt one among their number watching me closely. I clearly vexed and troubled her, and she had the air of one who did not like puzzles. I knew her type from Beulah, always busy about other people’s business. She reminded me of Martha’s sister Goody Francis. Her name was Mrs Peterson. I had seen her about the camp. Although thin, her clothes worn almost to rags, she knew how to survive among her captors. I never heard her complain and she had the knack of making herself useful: in sewing, foraging, running errands. It was just such an errand that brought her to me. One evening she approached my camp on the pretext of borrowing some meal.

‘I saw your boy ... ’ Even in his buckskins, Ephraim’s hair gave him away as English. The summer sun had bleached it to corn silk. ‘Are you captive?’ She looked round furtively. ‘Where is your master? How long are you taken? Which town?’

‘I have no master. I am not captive. I live here freely.’

‘How can that be?’ Her gooseberry eyes grew wide with astonishment, and avid to know more.

‘I left a settlement many years ago.’

‘Of your own free will?’

‘Not exactly. I was no longer welcome.’

She mulled over this unusual occurrence.

‘I have only heard one such story. A visiting minister, I forget his name now, he told us of a girl who bewitched a settlement and ran away to join the spirits in the forest.’

‘Nothing of that sort happened to me.’ I added quickly. ‘I had a disagreement with my mistress, over a personal matter of a delicate nature.’ I dropped my eyes, sure she would understand.

‘Unchastity?’ She looked suitably shocked.

I nodded. ‘My mistress took my master’s side against me. I was headstrong in those days, and foolish, and ran away. I became hopelessly lost in the forest and was found by a Pentucket band. I have been with them ever since. What’s left of them, that is. My husband was killed outside Pocumtuck, and my son ... ’

‘You
married
among them!’

She could no longer look at me. Her hand went to her mouth as though she might vomit. This was far more shocking than a master’s seduction of a servant. This was something far too shocking to countenance. Above her torn and dirty collar, her neck reddened to the colour of a turkey’s wattle.

‘I did.’

‘I see.’ She kept her lowered eyes away from me. ‘And the boy? He is not, not born of ... , I mean, he is so fair. He can’t be
native
?’

‘No.’ I laughed at her stifled outrage. ‘He’s not mine.’

I told her where he had been taken.

‘He will be returned, God willing. As we all will be.’

‘He has no kin there, as far as I know. When the time comes it will be his choice to stay or go.’

‘To go back to civilisation or live with savages?’ She looked at me. What choice could there be? ‘You have no other children?’

‘I had a daughter.’ I stopped for a moment, uncertain that my voice would bear the words. ‘She is dead.’

‘I have daughters, too. I’m sorry for your loss.’

Her look of sympathy was genuine enough, but behind it lay the thought that any daughter of mine would be better dead, I could see it in her eyes.

‘They were taken?’ I asked her.

She shook her head. ‘Their father had removed them to a safe town. I was to follow, but ... ’ She stopped for a moment, visited again by all that had happened, all that she’d seen. ‘He is a captain with the militia. Captain Peterson. You might have heard of him?’

I shook my head.

‘He is quite famous among
our
people ... ’ Her look mixed pride with contempt. ‘My girls ... ’ Collecting herself, she went on. ‘My girls were safe away when the savages attacked. I praise God for it. I fear they would not have survived.’

‘You have been treated badly?’

‘Not as such, and I’ve been offered no insult, but life among them is cruel harsh.’

‘No more than it is for them.’

‘There’s truth in that.’ She looked down at her blackened broken nails and dirty hands. ‘I ask God for His strength that I might endure it.’

She hurried away then, her master was calling for her. He was not an unfair man, but she held him in some fear. I sent her food and fresh clothing, and did what I could to ensure that her master was not too hard on her, for some captives were cruelly used, although often they brought this upon themselves.

She contrived to visit me again, this time bringing a piece of tattered Bible with her that she’d traded from one of the Indians. She came in great earnestness, quoting Ezekiel, chapter 18, verse 27:

‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness ... and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.’

I told her that my soul did not need saving. I did not consider myself to be wicked and, according to my own lights, I had ever striven to do that which was lawful and right.

She looked at me as though I had uttered a very great blasphemy. I saw little of her after that.

She made no attempt to come near, but I often felt her watching me. Or, more particularly, Ephraim. She would stop him, calling him to her to run some trifling errand or other, then keep him in conversation. When I questioned him, he said she spoke to him of the Bible and whether he kept strong in his faith.

‘And you answered?’

‘Yes, as far as I am able.’

‘Does she ask anything more?’

Ephraim did not answer. He would have saved me from knowing, but was ever an honest lad and his fair colouring made it hard for him to dissemble.

‘What else did she say?’

‘She asked me ... ’ He hesitated, flushing deeper, and then dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘She asked if you practise sorcery. She had heard ... heard it spoken about.’

I felt the world slide about me.

‘And what did you reply?’ I tried to keep my voice light, although a lot depended on the answer he had given her.

‘I answered, of course not! I told her, I told her you was a healer, and for that you was revered and respected. I said that you had saved my life and the lives of many others. She said, “You mean among the Indians?” I said, she might call ’em heathens, but you didn’t see no difference between them and Christians.’

‘I see. Did she ask you anything else?’

‘Yes, she did. She asked me if you worshipped.’

‘And how did you answer that?’

‘I said of course you do, but in your own way.’ He paused. ‘Which I told her you were bound to do, you having been away from church and regular service this long while.’ He looked at me. ‘Did I do wrong? Did I say the wrong thing, Mary?’

‘I’m sure you did not.’ I ruffled his silky soft hair. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘If I did, I didn’t mean to.’ He frowned, thoroughly agitated now. ‘And I am truly sorry. I only said the truth, though.’ His brow cleared as a fresh thought occurred to him. ‘That can’t do no harm, can it?’