The New World (9 page)

When I looked up again I found our friends had retreated several yards and were gazing at me with anxious faces; one of them had actually dropped onto his knees and seemed to be recommending that others did the same.

“They recognize it,” said Natty. “They think you've killed him.”

“Do they know him then?” I said—which was foolish of me, but I felt amazed by the confusion I had caused, and was sorry for it.

“They'll be grateful,” Natty said. “You'll see.”

She took my hand and led me forward, still raising her free arm as before, with the palm toward them. By the time we came close they had shuffled backward as far as the jetty and could go no further; their retreat was blocked by the body of the alligator.

“We do not mean you any harm,” said Natty, speaking slowly and a little more loudly than usual, as if this allowed everyone to understand. When she had finished she let go of my hand and touched the necklace, running her fingers over the carvings of the animals, touching their hard little eyes and sweeping bodies, then holding her fingers toward our friends as if she was passing them something substantial—color, or warmth, or a skim of the silver itself.

This seemed to reassure them a little and they began whispering to one another again, bending their heads together as if they did not want us to hear what they were saying. While this continued the clouds gradually lifted from their faces—lifted so thoroughly that when they turned back toward us again they seemed almost as simple and friendly as they had been at first. But there was a different look in their eyes, I felt sure of it.

“They think you're a god,” Natty said.

“Nonsense,” I told her, because it was a preposterous idea.

“Wait,” she said—and as though everything had already been planned, or Natty had seen it in a vision, one of the Indians then stepped forward. This was the tallest and oldest, the man who had killed the alligator and was obviously the leader of the whole party. With the monster's blood still smeared on his chest and face he slowly took one, two, three paces until he was near enough to let me inhale the river-smell off his hair and skin; next, with a little nod as if to ask my permission, which I quickly gave by nodding in return, he extended his hand and gently touched the necklace, stroking his finger-ends over the silver pieces and the animals that chased across them, all the while murmuring under his breath.

Whether he was praying or exclaiming or translating what he saw for the benefit of his friends, I had no idea. But the longer his admiration continued, the more I felt I should help him to a conclusion.

“Black Cloud,” I said. As the words left my lips, I realized this was the first time I had spoken to anyone other than Natty for many weeks. Brief as they were, and although they were the name of an enemy, I felt I had made my first proper connection with our new world.

“Black Cloud,” repeated the warrior, staring hard into my face. He was no longer touching the silver but holding my hand; his fingers felt slimy with river-water.

“You see,” said Natty softly. “They think you've killed him. You're their savior.”

“Perhaps,” I told her, but without looking round because my eyes were fixed on my friend, who was now nodding his head very energetically, as if he understood everything.

“Black Cloud,” he said again, “Black Cloud,” and then another word that sounded like “
mert
,” but when I repeated it to myself I realized was “
muerte.
”

“I told you,” Natty went on. “
Muerte
. Death.”

“Shouldn't we tell the truth?” I asked, still facing away from her.

“And how would we do that?”

“We could explain somehow.”

“Why?”

“Because they'll find out one day. They'll see we're liars.”

“Again, Jim. How would they do that?”

“Because Black Cloud will follow us. He'll find these people and they'll know. He'll punish them. We're putting them in danger if we lie to them.”

Natty did not answer this, and I said nothing more; I felt too daunted—though cowardly might be a better word. I let my friend hold my hand for a moment longer; I smiled back at his own smiling face; I felt the hands of others patting me on the back as they also came forward; I let them touch my skin and my hair; I let them caress the necklace, until at last I thought I must show I was satisfied with their thanks, and took a step away so that I was raised a little on the slope above the river.

The Indians accepted that this marked the end of whatever ceremony we had just undertaken, and promptly returned to the work we had interrupted. They untied the rope from the body of the alligator, then used one part of it to truss up the jaws and another part to make a kind of cradle to support the body. Once this was done they watched us lead our ponies to the water and there enjoy the drink they had wanted for so long, then divided into two groups, picked up their trophy, and set off along the river-bank. Every few paces one or other of them turned round to make sure we were following—which of course we were, leading our ponies behind us, and believing these men were the friends we had imagined, the guides who would lead us to others of our own kind, who in time would show us the way home. They made a very pretty picture with the sun dappling on their naked shoulders, and glinting in the moss that hung around us on every side.

It was now more than twelve hours since we had escaped from our prison, maybe fifteen, and because we had spent all that time in the wilderness, with every minute stretched by thirst and hunger and anxiety and astonishment, I had not been able to calculate how far we had traveled. Now, as we followed along the river path, I had a moment to think more clearly. Forty miles, I decided; forty miles at the most.

While this helped me understand how our friends had heard of Black Cloud, it also told me that he would find us very easily if he wanted. For this reason I often looked over my shoulder as we led our ponies forward, but saw only leaf-shadows closing behind us, and the beards of moss swaying gently where we had brushed against them.

Our friends had no such fears but chatted eagerly to one another, often turning round to marvel at us, and sometimes calling out in cheerful voices. As their talk continued I noticed here and there a resemblance to French and Spanish, both of them languages I had previously heard among the sailors on the Thames. This confirmed my idea that others like us must have passed this way, not as maroons but as travelers who had plunged into the emptiness to find trade, or missionaries determined to make conversions.

For all that, we saw no trace whatsoever of other men or families on our march—let alone of Europeans. Nothing, that is, until we came to the end of the wood and I smelled a sweet scent I knew was woodsmoke, and glimpsed patches of red and green and white between the branches ahead. As we stepped into the open I saw these were animal skins that had been dyed and stitched together to make tepees: ten, twelve, twenty of them.

We had reached a part of the country where the river, swirling heavily as it worked through a tight bend, had repeatedly collapsed the bank and so produced a miniature plain about an acre in extent, very convenient for a settlement. Water nearby for washing and drinking; the wood for protection and fuel; and on the two remaining sides, the wilderness. In the soft light of afternoon even these two wide prospects seemed peaceful, with the air beginning to cool, and purple clouds swelling along the horizon.

I did not have long to think of such things, because everyone in the village rushed forward as soon as they saw us, with no shyness and no suspicion—the women in dresses made of animal skin, with blankets pulled around their shoulders; the children wearing little skirts regardless of their sex; the men in tunics. In every case their hair was cut short, which meant they were not able to prettify themselves much; a few of the women had feathers dangling from their ears, and their foreheads were decorated with the same single charcoal lines as the men. This was all I could see in the way of ornament; it was enough, combined with their daintiness and neatness, to make me think we must look very disheveled in comparison.

They pressed around us very eagerly—about fifty or sixty of them—and I could see from the way they pointed and chattered to one another that they were especially interested in my necklace, and in knowing how I had come by it. Nevertheless, their greeting was so much gentler than the one we had received in Black Cloud's village, that I looked around expecting to see a smiling chieftain somewhere, encouraging all their goodwill. But no such person seemed to exist, no obvious ruler at all, in fact, unless it was an old grandmother I spied sitting apart from the crowd and smoking a long-stemmed pipe as though she expected the world to come to her and not the other way round.

However, as our guides continued to lead us forward, receiving a good deal of praise for their courage in killing such a mighty creature as an alligator, it became clear we had yet to reach the center of the village. This was a tepee much larger than the rest, a really impressive structure that stood twenty feet high, and covered enough ground to make a decent-sized parlor. When we stood outside what I would usually call the front door, which in this case was two large flaps made of deerskin, the hunting party gave a loud shout in unison and then suddenly left us, carrying off their prize toward the river-bank, with the crowd following. As the last stragglers left they took away our ponies to feed and water them. Natty and I continued standing there alone.

A minute passed, in which the village returned to whatever work we had interrupted—not, I thought, because they had suddenly forgotten us, but as a form of politeness. Then another minute, in which we heard scuffling and muttering inside the tepee. Then another, which I think was intended to whet our appetites for what might soon appear.

It turned out to be a man about sixty-five or even seventy years old, who was quite naked except for a headdress of tall white feathers which sprouted from a leather band around his forehead and trailed the whole length of his back. Stooping through the doorway of his lodge, then straightening so we were only a yard apart, he fixed us with his milky gray eyes, folded his arms across his chest, and planted his feet firmly apart. His face was tremendously weathered and lined, which gave him an air of great solemnity and wisdom. At the same time he seemed curiously abstracted, as though not fully conscious of himself.

One or two women called out to him from the tepees behind us, and one or two of the warriors leaped up, shaking their hands at the sky. But nothing seemed to catch his attention. He continued staring, perfectly silent and content. Waiting for something, I thought, and infinitely patient. Gazing from within the halo of his headdress.

This greeting, if I can call it that, lasted another long minute. Then without warning, and for no particular reason I could see, he glanced toward his hunters (who by now had set down their load close to the river-bank), reassured himself that none of them was harmed, and turned to examine us more closely.

Natty and I lowered our eyes out of respect, but also to avoid staring at his nakedness. He would not allow this, and quickly unfolded his arms to extend a hand toward each of us like an English gentleman; his skin felt soft and warm, and moved loosely over the bones. Once this was done, he touched the necklace on my chest, and muttered a few words under his breath.

When he had puzzled like this for a while, looking from the necklace into my face, then back at the necklace again, he held open the flap of his tent and encouraged us to walk inside. Natty blushed as she stepped forward, but our awkwardness quickly ended because, when the flaps closed behind us, our host immediately went to a chest at the side of the tepee and took from it something to cover himself. This was a long cloak that stretched from his shoulders to the ground and was made of the same white feathers as his headdress, all cunningly laid together like a gigantic bird's wing. The sheen of these feathers, combined with the rosy light diffused through the walls of the tepee, made the whole interior glow.

I looked around me as he seemed to expect. The floor of the tepee was covered in rugs and blankets to a depth of several inches, mostly red and brown, and all woven with great skill. And here and there ornaments hung down from poles that formed the framework of the tent: strips of plaited grass, and pieces of wood the wind had carved into sickle-shapes, and bunches of dried herbs. But in truth all these things were little more than a blur, because most of my attention was fixed on what appeared to be a bundle of bright striped cloth on the furthest side of the tent. It seemed surprisingly bulky—which soon turned out to be not so surprising after all, since while I continued staring the bundle shook, and balanced, and rose upright to reveal a head, and arms, and feet, all lavishly painted with pink and white and black dyes.

I recognized them at once. They were the colors of an exotic bird I had previously seen in pictures: the hoopoe. At the time, I thought this breed might be native to America, as it is to some parts of Europe; I only learned my mistake once I had already christened this apparition in my mind. His real name was Lives with the Birds, which I thought much too general for the effect he made with his decorations.

The appearance of Hoopoe was enough to make me forget my manners and stare. His behavior was even more astonishing, because he paid no attention to his senior the chieftain, but crouched, and peered, and teetered, and shied away, and made bold, and squinnied again as he came close to us, extending his arms sideways and fluttering his hands so the little bells attached to his wrists set up a tinkling music. Where had he found these bells, I asked myself, since they could not possibly have been made in the village? And why was he got up in this way, like a magician, when everyone in the village was dressed so simply? And what…?

But I did not have a chance to continue, because as soon as Hoopoe halted in front of us—though “halted” is not right, since he continued to swoop and fidget—he delivered his greatest surprise. He spoke to us in our own tongue. Not perfectly, and with a strong Spanish accent, but intelligibly and confidently, in a deep clear voice.

“You are welcome,” he said, suddenly dropping his hands to his sides and standing upright; our faces were level with one another, and his eyes (which were deep brown, but with the whites almost entirely covered with little red veins) flicked rapidly from me to Natty, then settled on the necklace. He began to smile.

I was so amazed by his words, and so pleased to hear them, I almost forgot myself.

“Thank God!” I blurted, and in the same breath began to tell him my name, and Natty's name, and how we had been shipwrecked and captured, and escaped, and then traveled through the wilderness, and found the hunters by the river, and seen them kill the alligator.

None of this seemed to interest Hoopoe greatly; he kept his eyes on the necklace, and did not communicate anything I had said to his chieftain, who had now stepped away from us and collapsed full length on a rug, where he continued to inspect us from the cocoon of his white robe, his head supported on one large and wrinkled hand.

“You have traveled a long way,” Hoopoe said when I finished.

“We have. From England.”

I wanted to say more but the mention of that word, which I had not spoken for a long time, made me pause and collect myself.

“From London,” Natty put in, to cover my difficulty.

This seemed to disappoint Hoopoe. “Not France?” he asked, briefly looking away from the necklace and meeting my eye.

“Not France, no,” I went on.

“Not Spain?”

“Not Spain either.”

“But she is dark,” he went on, swivelling his eyes to Natty, and speaking as if she was not present or could not understand him.

“Yes,” I said. “But England, all the same; England is our home. Why do you say France or Spain? Do you know them?” This was a ridiculous idea, but I could not think of a better way to introduce my next question.

Hoopoe rolled his eyes.

“And their languages?” I persevered. “Do you speak their languages?”

He shrugged, which made the bells jingle at his wrists. “Spanish a little,” he said.

“And yet you speak ours well.”

The bells jingled again. “I have met men from Spain,” he said, but reluctantly and with a melancholy expression. “I have met more from England—and from here, from the north.”

“Ah!” I said, because this was the answer I wanted.

Hoopoe did not seem to notice how pleased I was. “People are always arriving,” he told me in a flat voice, then made a strange pawing movement with his bare right foot, like a pony. I thought he wanted me to understand that these new arrivals were scooping up the earth.

“And they taught you to speak English here?” I went on.

“In another place, when I was a child.”

“And you have not forgotten?”

“I have spoken with others since then.”

“Others that came here, you mean, and stayed with you?”

“Not that. Passing by.”

“Many of them?”

Hoopoe did not answer this but suddenly screwed up his face and put his fingers in his ears. “Your language is not good,” he said. “It is noise.”

I glanced at Natty and smiled, to show her that I wanted to tell him how rough the language of his own people sounded in our ears; but I restrained myself. Instead, I asked whether there were more people in the village who spoke English. When he said there were none, his sadness seemed to lift a little, as though he enjoyed his singularity.

In this new mood he suddenly changed the subject, pointing to the chieftain lying beside us on his blanket, listening to what we were saying but with a nearly vacant expression on his face.

“White Feather,” he said.

“That's his name?”

“In English, yes. White Feather. He has gone ahead of us.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“His mind has gone forward,” Hoopoe explained, and twiddled his fingers in the air so the music of the bells rained down on us both. “To our ancestors. They are waiting for his body to follow. We are all waiting.”

Then he changed the subject again, just as abruptly.

“And this?” he said, touching my necklace for the first time; he did this warily, as if he thought the animals carved in the silver might suddenly nip him, and spoke with a dreamy sing-song note in his voice. In the weeks to come I would hear him use this tone whenever he thought he was in contact with some kind of spirit or other.

“Black Cloud,” he said, taking his hand carefully from the necklace and stepping away from me. “They think you have killed him, the rest of them here. They think you are a conqueror. But this is not the truth.”

I heard Natty shifting beside me, as if worrying about what I might say next, but I ignored her. I nodded. “It is not,” I said.

“He is alive.”

“We were his prisoners and we escaped.”

“He is following you.”

“We haven't seen him.”

“Certainly he is following you.”

“How do you know?”

“He is Black Cloud.”

“But he has no idea where we went.”

“He will find you. He will track you.”