Into the Wilderness (70 page)

Nathaniel
leaned in closer to her, and she took his hand to cradle between both of hers.

"Amanda
was a flighty girl, very dramatic. But when she came to my bed at night to be
comforted, I had no doubt that her fear was real."

There
was a mumbling from Joe, and they both looked toward him. When he had settled
again, Elizabeth continued.

"I
was five years older, you see, and it had always fallen to me to be the
sensible cousin to all of them, but especially to Amanda. And I suppose I was
well suited to that role. It was one thing that finally gave me some . . .
presence in the family. I remember how strangely my uncle Merriweather looked
at me, that first night that Amanda woke the whole household screaming and
would not take comfort from her mother, nor from anyone but me. He looked at me
as though he had never seen me before, and I suppose in a way that was true. He
was never cruel to me, I was just—" She paused.

"You
were invisible to him," Nathaniel supplied.

She
nodded, reluctantly. "And so they left to me to convince Amanda that the
Green Man was no more than a tale told at the hearth on a winter's night to
entertain. But it didn't matter really what I said to her, she often ended up
back shivering at my bedside in the deep of the night, when there was rain
especially."

"What
happened?" Nathaniel asked.

"She
married at eighteen, and moved away," said Elizabeth. "When she had
been married some weeks she came home to visit, and I asked her, when I had the
opportunity to address her privately, how she was sleeping. I thought perhaps
that she might even have forgot about the Green Man."

"But
she hadn't."

Elizabeth
paused. "No. I remember quite clearly the expression in her eyes, resigned
and a little sad. "He's come along, too, Lizzie," she told me.
"Along with the ponies and the silver. I suppose he is mine, and I must
learn to live with him."

"What
are you trying to say?"

"I'm
not sure. I suppose I mean to say that we each of us have our personal demons, and
that for some they are more . . . tangible than for others. And we carry them
with us wherever we go, although we would much rather leave them behind."

"And
what demon do you carry with you?" Nathaniel asked, very quietly.

"I
am tempted to claim that I have none," she said, leaning against him and
staring into the low fire. "But I fear you know me too well already to
accept that."

He
brought her fingers up to his mouth and kissed them. His eyes rested on her
face in a caress as warm and direct as his touch. "Listen, now, because I
want you to hear me."

In
the night outside the shelter, there was a long, high howl, but Nathaniel's
gaze held her steady.

He
said, "You'll never be invisible again. Not to me, never to me."

A
strong man crying in his sleep was a difficult thing to face with equanimity,
but Elizabeth sat with Joe and watched the pain gradually pull him into a
reluctant consciousness. Half awake, he seemed to be unaware of them for the
moment. Elizabeth was almost glad; she didn't want him to know that Nathaniel
had gone to fetch wood, thinking that it would distress him. She herself
breathed a secret sigh of relief when he came back into the firelight with his
arms full of the logs Joe had split and stacked. Nathaniel went out again because
the water was low, this time carrying a torch and his rifle in the crook of his
arm.

"You
are very uncomfortable," she said to Joe. "Tell me, is there anything
specific I can do for you?"

His
head turned back and forth on the cot with eyes closed. Elizabeth had dampened
a square of muslin from her pack and she wiped his face, noting how dry his
skin was. He did not sweat anymore, and there was no fever. She knew this could
not he a good sign.

"Joe,"
she said softly. "Do you have any message for us to take back to your
people?"

He
opened his eyes.

"It's
a poor joke," he said, his tongue thick and his words indistinct. "To
come so far and die of a scratch."

"I
wish I knew what I might do to comfort you," she said. "I don't even
know any prayers of the Catholic church."

Suddenly
he was much more awake, and there was something like a smile on his face; she
then saw that it was a grimace. "I ain't Catholic."
 

"But—”

“She
had me baptized, and she made me learn the prayers, and every morning there was
mass to sing before the work started, but I ain't Catholic. Not inside."

"Yes,"
Elizabeth said softly. "Of course you are right. Are there other prayers
you'd like to say, or perhaps the bible—”

“Don't
need prayers," Joe said. "I need a new arm."

She
thought he had drifted off again, when he spoke up softly.

"Do
you know Johnstown?"

"A
bit."

"I
never thought I'd miss it, but I do." And then, after another long pause:
"You know the new courthouse? Right across the street there's a blacksmith
by the name of Weiss, Hans Weiss." His voice trailed away.

"Do
you want a message delivered to this Hans Weiss?" Elizabeth prompted him.

Joe
shook his head. One hand moved across the blanket and for the first time he
touched Elizabeth, his fingers finding hers and wrapping around them,
squeezing.

"There's
a slave there, works the smithy. They call him Sam, but his name is Joshua.
Big, strong man, 'bout thirty years old. I would much appreciate it if you
could get word to him. Tell him I got this far, would you?"

She
nodded, unable to speak.

"Tell
him how sweet the water is up here, tell him that, too. And give him
this." From under the blanket, Joe drew forth something not quite small
enough to be hidden between his splayed thumb and finger. He pressed it into
Elizabeth's palm, and closed his hand over hers.

"He'll
know, when you give him that."

It
was a single disk of glossy dark wood, unlike anything Elizabeth had ever seen.
On the outer edges its carved geometric pattern was worn thin with handling.
There was a hole drilled through the center, and in it a small stone had been
wedged, perfectly round in shape but almost flat. A smaller hole near the edge
was empty. In the dim light of the fire Elizabeth could make out nothing more
of it, but while she tried, Joe fell back into sleep.

The
morning came, and the night chill burned off quickly along with the mist on the
lake. Elizabeth watched it break up and float gracefully into nothingness as
she fished, crouched on the shelf of rock where they had thought to make camp.
The woods seemed unusually quiet today, but she thought that it might be her
imagination.

Nathaniel
preferred fishing in the Mohawk way, with a spear, but she had more luck with
the hook and line that Robbie had taught her to use, and which she kept wound
into a ball in her pocket. Nathaniel had noted with some pleasure and perhaps a
little surprise that she had a talent for this kind of fishing. With a bit of
the stew meat as bait it didn't take long before Elizabeth had two fat trout on
the line, thrashing angrily, the early sun rippling up and down their sides to
spark the rainbow. With averted face and her mouth pressed hard, Elizabeth
dispatched them one by one with a sharp blow of the head to the rock, as Robbie
had shown her. With her knife she cleaned them in the lake, her chilled fingers
moving fast. The clear waters clouded with the blood and then with a school of
darting minnows with strangely enlarged heads, pleased to be let in on the
feast. Elizabeth paused, thinking of a quick swim—the heavy smells of Joe's
sickness hung about her and the lake, as icy cold as it was, would have been
welcome. But she was uneasy here by herself, with thoughts of what might be
happening at the camp. On the way she gathered sticks to build into a
latticework over the cook fire. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

Joe
was asleep again, deeper this time than before. He had roused only long enough
to take a bit of water, Nathaniel told her. And he had asked for her. He seemed
to be declining, slipping further and further away from them.

While
they watched the trout sizzle, Elizabeth cooked some of the small store of oats
into a thin gruel, in the hope that Joe would wake enough to take some
nourishment.

"We
need meat," Nathaniel said. "I'll go see what I can scare up. If you
can cope."

Elizabeth
was silent. Normally she would have sent him off without any qualms; she knew
he would not go far and that he would be back in a few hours with a brace of
rabbit or grouse, something they could manage quickly. In the meantime she
would otherwise have bathed, washed out her things, or gone searching for wild
onions and other greenery to supplement their meat. But this time would be
different. Joe might well die while Nathaniel was away.

She
felt him watching her, and was not surprised to have him read her thoughts.

"I
don't like it much either, Boots, but we have to eat. And we'll be moving fast
once we leave here. When he goes it will be quiet, you can be sure of that—he
just won't wake up."

"He
shouldn't be alone," she said more to herself than to Nathaniel, and he
nodded his approval.

By
late morning Joe had begun to come out of his sleep; she could tell by the
twitching of his face and hands. While she sat next to him mending a rent in
her leggings, he started awake, his whole body jerking, and then he reached
involuntarily toward his ruined arm and cried out, a terrible sound.

"Shhh."
Elizabeth stood, and sat again, and stood, one hand to her mouth, wondering
what she could do. "Shhh," she repeated, and then something came to
her from a school lesson long ago, learned over her books at Oakmere. She
leaned in close to Joe, trying to ignore the smells rising from him, and
crooned. "Schlaf Kindlein, schlaf." Sleep, little one, sleep."

When
he looked up at her his face was quieter; he seemed to be looking beyond her.
"Nobody could mistake me for a child, Miz Elizabeth," he said
clearly.

She
sat down heavily, wiping her own forehead with a trembling hand.

"You
thought I was out of my head."

"I
thought you were disoriented."

He
grunted. "Same difference. Is there water?"

"Of
course," she said, flustered. When he had drunk, she sat with the bowl in
her hands, not knowing what to say.

"You
got that bijou I gave you?"

She
produced it from around her neck; she had strung it there on the long silver
chain with the silver and pearl pendant Nathaniel had given her, afraid that
otherwise she might lose it.

"What
is it?" she asked, curious. In the light the center stone had proved to be
an opal, milky white except when the sun touched it, and then blazing in
beautiful pearl tones.

"Made
of wood from the fever tree," Joe explained, reaching for it. She put it
in his hand. "Come all the way from Africa with my mama." He glanced
at her, and then shook his head. "She hid it under her tongue all that
time, thinking she would need good medicine on this side of the world where the
devils roam. Trouble was, she didn't have enough medicine for all of 'em."

Suddenly
he began to cough, a great raking cough that came up deep from his belly and
convulsed him in pain. When it had passed, he fell back against the cot.

"In
my lungs," he said. "Don't expect it'll be much longer now."

"I
have some gruel," Elizabeth offered, wishing for the ability to provide
some other, some real comfort. "Would you like that?"

He
blinked at her slowly. "Thank you kindly," he said, already more than
half asleep.

* * *

Nathaniel
returned in mid—afternoon with three rabbits, two grouse, and a wild turkey,
which he set to cleaning immediately in the hope that there would be time to
smoke some of the meat to carry away. He moved fast and worked neatly, and when
Elizabeth stopped to talk to him he was as pleasant and easy as ever, but he
was worried. She could see it in the way the muscle in his cheek jumped, when
he was quiet and thought her attention elsewhere. She worked with him and they
talked of unimportant things, grateful for this quiet time while Joe slept. The
weather was warm and Elizabeth began to sweat in the direct sun, but she didn't
mind this. It seemed a long time since she had been warm through, and she said
this to Nathaniel.

"This
is the warmest spring I remember since I was a boy," he said. "That's
our good fortune, although it don't seem that way to you right now."

"I
didn't mean to complain," Elizabeth said quietly.

Nathaniel
sighed. "You ain't complaining, and neither am I," he said.
"You're mighty jumpy, Boots." He was cleaning a grouse and looked
around him for a place to dispose of the entrails. "Too bad there's no
dog," he said. "But I expect a fox will be by for this soon as we
turn our backs."