Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (36 page)

 
          
 
Packrat had never felt so utterly miserable.
The woman's blood had stained his very soul. At night, his dreams were
tormented; horrible images of Heals Like A Willow capered through them. The eye
of his soul saw her consorting with mole, weasel, and owl—all evil spirit
helpers. Packrat had taken to sleeping with his blanket covering his face lest
Willow
shoot a witch pellet into his mouth.

 
          
 
By day, he couldn't shake the jittery sense of
impending doom. Any confidence he'd had in himself had evaporated like cool
spring rain from sun-warmed ground. Even now, he checked himself for pains, for
sores, for any indication that his health was failing.

 
          
 
They'd passed the sand hills, always following
the north shore of the river. These were familiar hunting grounds. He had
ridden here as a boy, full of dreams. Now, returning on what should have been
his first great triumph as a man, Packrat felt as empty as the grassy plains
that spread around them.

 
          
 
He shot a nervous glance at his captive. She
rode her mare with a particular grace, head high, back straight. How could she
look so calm and proud when disaster lurked everywhere? His gaze darted at the
sky and then around at the hillsides, expecting Sioux raiders to top each hill.
His horse shied at nothing. Packrat mumbled his prayers, hoping that some
spirit beast wasn't lurking nearby to steal his soul.

 
          
 
I ought to kill her, find myself some peace.

 
          
 
But if he did, he'd be haunted by her ghostly
face, grinning at him in triumph. After all, she knew about the Death star, and
Wolf, and the other powers sacred to the Pawnee. Wouldn't she come back in
death to haunt him?

 
          
 
At no time did he allow her out of his sight.
Once, encamped, he'd stripped her, searching through her clothing.

 
          
 
"What are you doing?" she finally
signed.

 
          
 
In Pawnee, he'd told her, "Searching for
an owl claw, mole skin, weasel hide, or sole skin from a corpse's foot. That,
or anything else you could witch me with."

 
          
 
She'd studied him with those penetrating dark
eyes and signed, "Why don't you let me go?"

 
          
 
"You would win," he had told her.

 
          
 
Packrat looked out over the rolling plain. The
river ran just to their south, its course marked by the thick band of
cottonwoods that had begun to bud out in a green haze. Piled white clouds built
against the blue vault of the sky to the north. The grass had greened; some,
like the junegrass and bluegrass, was already heading out Wildflowers dotted
the earth in white, yellow, and blue.

 
          
 
Spring, the time of renewal. The stars known
as the Swimming Ducks had appeared in the night sky to rouse the animals and
inform the Pawnee that ceremonies were due. Thunder had awakened in the sky.
Careful hands would have prepared the Evening Star Bundle by now. The
ground-breaking, the Pawnee planting ceremony, would have just passed, the
fields tilled and corn planted.

 
          
 
And here I am, far away, riding with a Snake
woman who may be a witch.

 
          
 
If nothing else, the long days and hard travel
should have worn her down. Where did she get the stamina to maintain that
poise? His gaze strayed to her muscular brown legs, and followed the rounded
curves of her calves, up along those sleek thighs until they disappeared under
the leather of her dress. How slim-waisted she was, lithe and supple. The
fringes on her dress swayed with the horse's gait, accenting the full swell of
her hips. At the same time, her hair, washed glossy the night before with yucca
root, gleamed with blue tints in the sunlight.

 
          
 
How he longed to run his hands over her smooth
skin, cradle her soft breasts in his hands and...

 
          
 
Fool! That's how she polluted you in the first
place! "I can't believe myself. Here I am, dreaming about a witch!"

 
          
 
She turned at his voice, raising one of those
perfect eyebrows into a questioning arch.

 
          
 
"Nothing," he growled. "I'm
just wishing I'd never captured you." With his hands he signaled,
"Turn around. Ride."

 
          
 
"You do not seem happy."

 
          
 
"Why should I be?" he signed.
"You have ruined me."

 
          
 
Her quick hands replied, "Do not take
women captive. And if you do, don't lie with them."

 
          
 
He listened to the trill of a meadowlark and
signed: "What do Shoshoni men do with women they take?"

 
          
 
'They lie with them. That doesn't mean a woman
likes it."

 
          
 
"You're a captive. Not even a real
person."

 
          
 
"Only Pawnee are real persons?"

 
          
 
Packrat snorted derisively. "Everyone
knows that."

 
          
 
"And the Sioux?"

 
          
 
"Worse than animals! Homeless raiders,
too lazy to work for what they can steal. One day, the Pawnee will kill them
all for the vermin they are."

 
          
 
She laughed. Her fingers signed: "People
are the same everywhere. If you were raised Sioux, you would say the same thing
about Pawnee."

 
          
 
Raised a Sioux! By the light of Evening Star,
what a ludicrous idea! "Sioux can't even speak in a human tongue!"

 
          
 
"And you can?"

 
          
 
In Pawnee, he told her, "Yes, I can. Only
Pawnee speak like real people."

 
          
 
Her smile was flirtatious. "Good. Me
human," she told him in passable Pawnee.

 
          
 
Packrat's mouth had fallen open and he closed
it foolishly. "Where did you learn Pawnee?"

 
          
 
"I listen. Have some words. You
teach." She tilted her head innocently. "Keep talk to me. Signs help
me learn. You say Pawnee-talk make real person. In you rules, me real
person."

 
          
 
"You'll be Snake—and not a real
person—until the day you die, witch."

 
          
 
"No understand all your talk."

 
          
 
"Good. I'm going to keep it that
way!" He shook his head. Of course she would learn to speak. Captives
usually did, if they lived long enough. "And I'd better stick to making
signs."

 
          
 
To his irritation, she'd heard that.

 
          
 
Preoccupied with this new problem, he was slow
to notice the riders, no more than two black dots in the distance. Heat waves
shimmered off the spring grass, but even that far away, Packrat could tell the
difference between men on horseback and buffalo.

 
          
 
He glanced suspiciously at
Willow
. She seemed unaware, riding with the
stately grace of Evening Star herself.

 
          
 
Packrat called, pointed toward the trees, and
angled away from the riders.

 
          
 
With her hands,
Willow
signed: "You wish to avoid them?
Afraid they will kill you with your Power broken?"

 
          
 
He hadn't seen her look in the direction of
the riders. 4 'What are you talking about?"

 
          
 
She lifted her bounds hands, pointing toward
the strangers.

 
          
 
"How long have you known they were
there?"

 
          
 
"Don't know words," she answered.

 
          
 
He repeated his query in signs.

 
          
 
"Saw horses before we talk," she
told him simply.

 
          
 
"And you didn't say .. . ? Oh, forget it.
I should have taken my father a bear instead of you. It would have been a lot
easier." There, figure that out, witch.

 
          
 
The trouble was, the riders had seen them, and
were even now racing toward them.

 
          
 
"Wolf, help me. I may have to fight, and
this accursed woman has robbed me of Power."

 
          
 
"What say?"
Willow
asked.

 
          
 
"Nothing." He wet his lips, kicking
his horse into a run. "How can I win with my Spirit Power broken, woman?
When they kill me, you'd better hope they are as kind to captives as I've
been!"

 
          
 
And they would kill him. No warrior could win
a battle when his spirit helpers had turned their heads away. Not even when
fighting against animals like the Sioux.

 
          
 
Every man carries about him a touchstone, if
he will make use of it, to distinguish substantial gold from superficial
glitterings, truth from appearances. And indeed the use and benefit of this
touchstone, which is natural reason, is spoiled and lost only by assuming
prejudices, overweening presumption, and narrowing our minds. The want of
exercising it, in the full extent of things intelligible, is that which weakens
and extinguishes this noble faculty in us.

 
          
 
—-John Locke, Why Men Reason So Poorly

 
          
 
Phillip Hamilton carefully lowered his stiff
leg to the carriage step until it could take his weight, then following with
his good leg, and repeated the process to reach the ground. He did that now,
helped by Jeffry's stabilizing hand.

 
          
 
His black carriage was parked beside a rutted
road that transected a rolling grassy field. To the south, the
Charles River
and
Boston
Harbor
sparkled in the morning sunlight. The
harbor islands made black lozenges in the silver.

 
          
 
The horses stamped in their traces as Phillip
grasped the head of his cane and slid it out of the carriage. Bracing himself,
he turned, looking at the low grassy knolls that gave way to trees several
musket shots to the north.

 
          
 
Everything seemed to burst with life. The
breeze off the bay carried the musky scents of saltwater and tidal marsh. The
gulls cried raucously, their voices mingling with the melodious trills of the
inland songbirds. Wildflowers bobbed and waved in the verdant spring grass.

 
          
 
Once, nearly fifty years ago, before the
harbor defenses had been built, this undulating terrain had been vital to the
defense of the city.

 
          
 
"Sir?" Jeffry asked. "Are you
all right?"

 
          
 
Phillip pointed with his cane. "Look.
Cows grazing out there as if nothing had ever happened. Where once our feet
trampled, now only winding cow trails remain. It's better that way, I
suppose."

 
          
 
"You say that every year."

 
          
 
"Perhaps I do. It's only once a year I
see it like this. The rest of the time, I see it in my mind. Hear it. Dirty
white puffs of gunsmoke, the popping clatter of the muskets, men yelling,
screaming.
Battle
is incredibly loud, Jeffry. The funny thing
is, you barely hear it when you're in the middle of it. A bullet makes a sound
when it hits flesh. Did you know that? A mixture of a pop and a splat. Men were
shot down all around me. Through that roar of cannon, yelling, and clattering
of ramrods, I heard those balls hitting home. But, you know, I never heard the
one that hit me. One minute I was charging forward, and the next I was down. No
pain. Just down, and I didn't remember how I got there."

 
          
 
He relived that moment, lying facedown, men
bellowing and the screaming hiss of balls cutting the air. How puzzled he'd
been, that he could have taken a fall when his blood was up. How silly to trip
at so important a moment. Had he stepped in a hole?

 
          
 
"I didn't understand until I tried to
stand." Phillip rubbed his nose, remembering. "My leg, it just
wouldn't work. Wouldn't hold me. I rolled over, looked down, and saw the blood,
the ripped breeches. It still didn't hurt. I just lay there with the battle
raging all around me. It might have been an eternity . . . refusing to
believe."

 
          
 
Phillip used his cane to point part way up
Breed's Hill
. "Right up there. When I finally
collected myself, I used my musket to pull myself up. And then I hobbled back,
right through the middle of the battle and . . . Oh, I'm boring you to death.
You've heard it so many times."

 
          
 
"You may tell me again, sir." Jeffry
smiled.

 
          
 
"You're a good man to humor me so."
Phillip stumped out into the grass, Jeffry at his side. "It was more
important than usual to come this year."

 
          
 
"Because of Master Richard?"

 
          
 
"I'm worried sick about him. I let my
anger goad me into something I never should have considered. I could have sent
him West, yes. But not with the money, Jeffry. How incredibly foolish of me.
Had I the sense God gave a rock, I'd have sent the money with you, and Richard
could have been your cover. You could have protected them both."

 
          
 
Jeffry frowned thoughtfully at the grass.
"He must have a chance to find his way to manhood, sir. You, of all men,
know the risks that entails."

 
          
 
"Do you think I made a mistake?"
Phillip turned to meet Jeffry's eyes.

 
          
 
"Yes, sir."

 
          
 
"Why didn't you tell me?"

 
          
 
Jeffry's smile flickered at the corner of his
mouth. "The only subject I cannot advise you on is Richard, sir. Your
relationship with him provokes you beyond your normal prudence."

 
          
 
An emptiness yawned within Phillip. "My
grandfather was a prisoner in
England
, a debtor. He took out loans.
Unfortunately, he went into competition with the squires. They broke him. Made
him lose everything because he was running his business better than they,
taking a share of their market.

 
          
 
"I remembered that lesson and fought here
to make a better world. I was such an idealistic young man. I had determined at
that early age that I would be a soldier. Take my chances on death."

 
          
 
"To fight for equality in trade?"

 
          
 
"Hah! You know better than that. There is
never equality in trade. He who is smarter, more industrious, and more
ambitious will always dominate trade. Equal? Never. No, I was a soldier so that
I could have the chance he never did, and my father barely had. The chance to
make something of myself, no matter who I was descended from."

 
          
 
"You were a soldier so that you could
build your fortune, marry a beautiful lady, and allow your son to become a
philosopher."

 
          
 
"That's right." Phillip pressed the
tip of his cane into the soft soil. "And I achieved all of those things.
But at such a cost, Jeffry. When Caroline died, she took the light out of my
soul. Now, I wonder what I have done to Richard. Why didn't I just leave him
alone? Better by far than to have sent him to his death."

 
          
 
He looked down at the holes he'd poked in the
rich earth. Holes, like men, were ephemeral. The grass would reclaim them, and
the birds would sing as if nothing had happened.

 
          
 
"He's not dead."

 
          
 
"Are you so sure? Feeling something in
your African soul?"

 
          
 
"Perhaps."

 
          
 
"Did you ever long for a son?"

 
          
 
"Once, sir. A long time ago. I thought
you among the luckiest of men in the world. When Mrs. Hamilton died giving
birth to Richard, it was a shock. Seeing what it did to you made me uneasy.
Then, watching as you tried to raise Richard, my desire evaporated."

 
          
 
"You could have married, you know."

 
          
 
Jeffry chuckled dryly. "We've had this
conversation before, sir. Nothing has changed over the years."

 
          
 
"My Caroline, your Betsy. What miserable
old men we are. Each defeated in love, I by death, and you by an institution.
Pathetic, aren't we?"

 
          
 
"No, sir. We live, and have our health.
Only our dreams are dead."

 
          
 
"And now I've cast my son to the
wind."

 
          
 
"At least you had him to cast, sir."

 
          
 
"That is true." Phillip propped
himself on his cane. "If he survives, he'll inherit the estate. Idealist
that he is, he'll make you miserable. Give you lecture after lecture on
freedom, self-responsibility, and free will. He'll do his damnedest to cast you
out on your own."

 
          
 
"Yes, sir. I'll handle him, sir. Just the
same as I do you."

 
          
 
"I'm sure you will." Phillip placed
a hand on Jeffry's shoulder. "And thank you for helping me to believe that
he'll come home one day. An old man needs his fantasies— no matter how foolish
he's been with his life."