Into the Wilderness (30 page)

There
was a tugging at her arm, and she looked down.

"Hannah!"

Elizabeth
was so pleased to see the little girl that she leaned down and hugged her,
pressing a kiss on one cold cheek. Hannah smiled broadly at this greeting, and
touched her fingers shyly to Elizabeth's face.

"Come,"
Hannah said, taking Elizabeth's gloved hand, and nodding at Kitty.
"Come." She led them through a small group of old men who stood
watching the game wrapped in blankets and fur robes, talking in low tones among
themselves while they nursed long clay pipes. Their attention was fixed on the
far end of the playing field, where the players were headed.

"Julian
said to wait," Katherine protested, even as she followed along.

"Julian
is paying us no mind at all," Elizabeth pointed out.

The
village itself was a little collection of log cabins set in a frozen circle of
fallow cornfields. At the center of all this stood a long house It was about
the length of four cabins, constructed entirely of bark lashed together with
rope of braided roots. Tendrils of smoke rose from vents in the roof, but there
were no windows. A door faced the east and the playing field, hung with a
tremendous bearskin worn hairless and almost transparent at the edges. Above it
a turtle had been drawn in red paint on the bark.

On a
prominent spot between the lodge and the playing field, just before the remains
of a great fire, an old man sat on a blanket. In front of him was a great pile
of goods: bundles of pelts, a very old flintlock musket, a collection of
knives, an axe head without a handle, a bullet mold, a waistcoat of brocade,
pieces of calico in various colors, a brace of rabbit, striped blankets, a lace
shawl, glass and metal beads laid out carefully, a tied bundle of tobacco, a
statue of the Virgin Mary, and a copper kettle. In a semicircle around the old
man and his treasures, a group of women stood watching the game. Elizabeth was
relieved to see Falling—Day and Many-Doves coming toward them.

"Please,"
Falling—Day said, her dark eyes bright with welcome. "You honor us by
coming to watch baggataway on the last day of Midwinter. Please sit." She
was gesturing to another blanket.

"We
can only stay another few minutes," Katherine said to her, distantly.
"We have to be going very soon."

Elizabeth
took Katherine's arm, squeezed it hard.

"Thank
you so much for your thoughtfulness," she said. "But we would really
like to watch."

They
joined the women, who nodded at them impassively with hooded eyes before they
turned back to watch their sons and brothers and husbands.

The
old man was certainly the most ancient human being Elizabeth had ever seen,
older even than Chingachgook. One of his eyes was covered with a milky gray
substance, and his long hair had thinned to a baby—fine white. But he watched
the game with a keen interest and awareness that made it clear that he was not
feeble.

"That
is my great—grandfather," Hannah whispered to Elizabeth. "He is the
clan elder here, he looks after the wagers."

"What
is your great—grandfather's name?"

"Gau'yata'se,"
Many-Doves answered for Hannah, coming up beside Elizabeth.
"Sky—Wound—Round." And that is my uncle." She indicated another
older man, who paced the edge of the river. "He is the keeper of the
faith, called Bitter—Words."

Elizabeth
watched as Bitter—Words raised a turtle's—shell rattle above his head to the
rising cadence of his song. His whole body moved with the rhythm, and each step
was accompanied by the music of shell necklaces and strings of animal teeth
hanging from his neck and wound around his waist and knees. On his head was a
complex headdress in the likeness of a fox.

There
was a gasp from the crowd and Elizabeth turned to see the small, lean player
darting from one end of the field to the other, leaving his pursuers behind to
send the ball flying; it made contact with a large boulder with a satisfying
smack. There was a rustling among the observers and a great deal of more
animated discussion.

"Did
he score?"

"Yes,
the Turtle clan have made their sixth goal," said Hannah, with a small
frown. "Now the Wolf and the Turtle are both within one point of a
victory."

A
woman broke out of the crowd with a terrible scowl on her face and stepped out
onto the ice, waving her fists in the direction of the players and upbraiding
them loudly.

"My
cousin," Falling—Day explained to Elizabeth. "She is clan mother
here. Her son plays for the Wolf, and she don't think much of his performance
today."

"She
asks Tall—As—Trees why he wears eagle feathers when he runs like a three—legged
rabbit," translated Hannah cheerfully. "Maybe she will take a switch
to him like she did last year."

Falling—Day
cast a glance at her granddaughter, and Hannah bit her lip. She ducked her
head, but her grin remained.

"It
is a great honor to play for the clan in the Midwinter games," Falling—Day
explained more to Hannah than to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth
watched as the ball made a great arc over the heads of the players to be
scooped out of the air once again.

"The
Wolf have the ball," observed Many-Doves . "Maybe there will be a
quick end to this."

"Let's
hope so," muttered Katherine. She grasped Elizabeth's arm. "There's
Richard," she said.

Elizabeth
followed Katherine's line of vision until she caught sight of Richard. He was
walking along the playing field on its other side, his head bent low in
concentration as he listened to the young Indian who kept him company. The more
animated the man became, the more slowly Richard shook his head.

"Do
you know that man talking to Richard Todd?" Elizabeth asked Falling—Day.

The
older woman inhaled, nodding. "Half—Crow. Of the Caghnawaga Turtle clan,
in Canada." In a low singsong voice, Falling—Day began to recite
Half—Crow's family history and genealogy. Listening to Hannah recently,
Elizabeth had come to realize that to ask any Kahnyen’keháka about another
Kahnyen’keháka was to ask for a detailed history of his clan; she would have found
this interesting, under other circumstances, but right now she was hardly able
to concentrate. One of the players had caught her attention.

He
was running down the marsh full—out toward the goal, his hair flying behind
him, the muscles flowing on his back. His long, powerful torso twisted
gracefully as he swung the stick in an arc to snatch the ball from the air,
revealing a barely healed wound which showed raw red on his right shoulder. She
drew in a breath as he followed the swing through and turned full circle,
revealing his face. It was painted in red and black, in a slashing geometric
pattern that accented the strong nose and high brow.

"Nathaniel,"
Elizabeth breathed.

Falling—Day
broke off her narrative. At that moment, Nathaniel let the ball fly and it hit
the boulder that served as a goal with a small thud. The spectators rose up
with one voice, all restraint suddenly abandoned.

"You'd
never know that he's white," Elizabeth said softly.

"Sometimes
it's hard to tell," Falling—Day agreed. "That's why we call him
Deseroken. "Between—Two—Lives."

* * *

With
great satisfaction, Julian collected his winnings from a blank—faced and quite
pungent trapper known only as Dutch Ton. He pocketed the coins and bills with a
small smile, and then turned his gaze over the crowds.

The
players were being led away by the elders to a ceremonial washing at a hole
chopped in the ice; later there would be prayers and long rites where the men
would dance. The social dancing, when the women would get a chance, wouldn't
start until the evening. Julian knew that there wasn't time to wait. His sister
would want to be on her way, and he was bound to accompany her. Already Galileo
was pacing a worn path around the team, eager to get on the road. Julian
thought of sending the women ahead with Richard in attendance. Richard was too
bloody pigheaded to be good company anyway. He hadn't wanted to watch the game,
didn't want to be anywhere near the Indian village. Although he had taken one
look at the game in progress and told Julian to lay his coin on the Wolf clan,
and he had been right.

Julian
walked along, looking for his sister and contemplating the great satisfaction
of a wager well placed. With a sigh, he acknowledged the necessity of moving
on; Elizabeth was suspicious already, and it wouldn't be politic to have the
judge find out about the wagering, regardless of the outcome. As put out as
Richard was with him, Julian knew he couldn't necessarily count on his silence,
either. The sad truth was, no one had any faith in his ability to keep things
within bounds.

About
fifty yards from the long house Julian stopped on a rise, so that the whole
scene was spread out in front of him. He watched as a crowd gathered around the
old sachem who was distributing the spoils to the winners. The players were
returning, dripping ice water and sweat, dragging a whole troop of children
along behind them, hollering and dodging in and out, fighting over the honor of
carrying the men's lacrosse sticks. The old man who had run most of the prayer
business was chanting, shaking a rattle over his head.

There
was Elizabeth, observing with that crease between her eyes that meant she would
remember every detail. How his sister could manufacture enthusiasm for the most
bizarre events was ever a mystery to him. He supposed she would stay for the
ritual storytelling and dream telling and never have to suppress a yawn, in
spite of the fact that she wouldn't understand a word.

Julian
called across the playing field and Elizabeth turned toward the sound of his
voice, and along with her, Many-Doves .

It
shouldn't have come as a surprise anymore, but Julian was struck almost dumb by
the sight of her. Many-Doves —a ridiculous name, but it suited her. He couldn't
think of her as Abigail; Abigail was a name for a girl like his sister, proper
and boring and without a clue about men. No, Many-Doves reminded him of the
madonnas the Italians painted over and over again: dark and light at the same
time, silent, but with eyes that looked right into a man and wouldn't let him
go. As if she knew everything there was to know about him without a lot of
questions and discussion. It was no wonder so many white men went native, he
thought. Another luxury he couldn't afford.

Many-Doves
stood focused on the approaching players and Julian watched as her expression
suddenly lost its usual remoteness. He noted with some regret that her look was
for the player walking toward her, the big pock—marked buck who had dominated
the game. Even from fifty yards Julian could see that he was covered with gooseflesh,
and still breathing hard. Many-Doves stood waiting for him like a queen for a
knight who had just championed her.

She
didn't step toward him or even smile, but it was there on her face, her eyes
fixed on his. Many-Doves lifted her arms, sending a red—striped blanket into a
billowing arc over his head to settle it on his shoulders. She stepped up close
to draw it across his chest.

Once
or twice Julian had had women look at him that way, the way women look at men
when they imagine themselves in love. The way Elizabeth was looking at the next
man.

Julian
watched astounded as Nathaniel Bonner, half—naked and painted like a savage,
came to a halt in front of his sister. Elizabeth stepped forward with a blanket
and she raised her face up, showing herself to be more like Many-Doves than
Julian would have ever imagined. His tight—hearted, self—sufficient,
don't—come—near—me sister. Looking at Nathaniel Bonner with her eyes like
torches in the night.

"Where
the hell have you been hiding yourself?"

Startled,
Julian turned to find Richard with Kitty trailing behind. "We won't be
home before dark at this rate," Richard said.

"Do
let's be off." Kitty said, in a less angry tone, glancing uneasily between
Richard and Julian.

Julian
turned the two of them away from the long house and toward the sleigh.

"Go
on, tell Galileo we're on our way directly," he said, pushing them off.
"I'll get Elizabeth and follow you."

Kitty
hesitated, but Richard was walking off already with great impatient strides.

"Go
on, Kitty my dear," said Julian with a smile. "We'll be right
there."

When
the parlor clock struck midnight, Elizabeth rose. What she was thinking was
madness, and yet she imagined doing it so clearly that it felt inevitable. It
would take her an hour, now that she knew the way. She could find Hidden Wolf:
the skies were clear, the moon near full. It didn't matter that she had been up
since sunrise, or spent ten hours on the road. She could be back before the
moon set. Who would know?

With
her dress half buttoned and one stocking on, Elizabeth lay down again and
buried her face in the pillow. She was so vexed and irritated that she could
easily cry, or shout, or throw something.