Into the Wilderness (81 page)

"Please,"
said Elizabeth, no longer able to hold back. "Please, may I see him?"
Robbie pulled her closer to him, hushed her softly. "Courage, lass,"
he whispered. "Let the boy talk, for he does ye naucht but good."

"Onhka?"
asked the old woman, her face creased with doubt.
Who?

"Lingo,"
said Otter and with that single word, his agitation left him, flowed out and
transferred itself to the entire crowd. The men pressed closer. One of them,
wearing a headdress fashioned from the entire pelt and skull of a wolf, pushed
to the front. His face was painted in great vertical stripes of red and white
and in his eyes Elizabeth read doubt.

"The
man called Lingo is no man," he said. "He is a ghost. He walks with
the Windigo," he concluded, and there was a sigh that rose up from the
assembly like the sparks of the fire, disappearing into the night.

"Sachem,"
said Otter to Stone—Splitter. "He walks no longer. I have seen his blood
on the ground."

The
old woman raised her voice. "If our warriors have never been able to kill
the ghost called Lingo," she said, "then this white woman cannot have
done such a thing. Unless she is
Wataenneras.
"

Elizabeth
did not know this word, but Robbie's indrawn breath told her it was not good to
be called such a thing.

"She
is no
Wataenneras,
" Otter said.
"Her medicine is good."

Elizabeth
said, "Otter. Tell this woman, your grandmother, something that she knows
already. Tell her that a woman's righteous anger has its own magic."

Otter
hesitated, and then did as she asked.

In
the old woman's eyes there was a flickering.

"Do
you have proof of this?" Stone—Splitter asked.

Without
turning toward her, Otter said, "Show them."

Elizabeth
stepped back, shaking her head. With one hand she clutched the front of her
shirt.

Robbie
leaned toward her. "Ye mun show them proof o' wha' ye claim, lass, 'gin ye
wish tae see Nathaniel. Ye've no' convinced the woman, and wit hoot her word
ye'll get nae further."

But
still, she hesitated. Somewhere in the shadowy long houses Nathaniel lay,
waiting for her. Within touching distance. Within calling distance. Could he
hear this, what they said of her, what Otter had told? It did not matter, for
by tomorrow he would hear it, if not from her, then from others. To claim her
husband she must first claim Jack Lingo. For all eternity, he would belong to
her as surely as Nathaniel did. They wanted to see evidence not only of Lingo's
death, but of her pride in this deed; they wanted Lingo's scalp. She felt the
point of his knife at her eye, and for a moment she truly wished she had it to
show them.

Elizabeth
pulled the chain from her shirt and held up the coin between two fingers so
that it flashed in the firelight. When she could take her eyes away from that
sight, she saw something on the old woman's face which surprised her. A new and
grudging respect, and something else, something in the way she drew back, and
held herself. Perhaps it was envy, or perhaps fear.

"She
killed Lingo with his own rifle," said Otter, holding this up, too, now
that Elizabeth had made her claim. The barrel gleamed red—brown in the
firelight. This is why Otter had insisted on taking it, as proof.
Vous et nul autre
. She could look at it,
now, without her gorge rising.

Otter
said: "Bone—in—Her—Back has walked many days to find her husband. Will you
take her to him now?"

The
old woman turned away from the fire. At a nod from the sachem, Elizabeth
followed her, alone.

* * *

There
were three long houses set at angles to each other. The great expanse of their
curved and ribbed sides reminded Elizabeth of the skeleton of a whale she had
seen on the shore off the New—York harbor, blazing white against a blue—green
sea. Almost a year ago, that had been. She wondered at this, that it could be
true.

The
old woman was hesitating before a bearskin door, watching Elizabeth.

"I
am Ohstyen'tohskon," she said. "This is the long house of the Wolf,
and I am Kanistenha here."
Clan
Mother.

"I
thank you for your help and your hospitality," Elizabeth said, seeking the
Kahnyen’keháka words slowly. "I thank you for my husband's health."

The
old woman blinked at her. Elizabeth saw that she had not gained her trust, or
her respect. But then none of that mattered, not at this moment.

The
singing and drums had begun again, so that inside the long house there was an
underlying rhythm to the sounds of the night like a muted heartbeat. It was a
warm evening, and only a few fires were lit in the long central aisle, casting
enough light to see the raised platforms at the rear of each living area. Each
of them was piled with bear pelts and furs of various kinds and on many of
these there were sleeping children, their naked skin glowing softly. In the
deep shadows, Elizabeth saw a young woman with a newborn child at her breast,
its tiny fists curling into the soft flesh. The woman watched her with hooded
eyes, as if she were nothing more than a dream.

Then
the old woman came to a stop, and gestured with her chin. Elizabeth was almost
afraid to look. She thought that her fear would be obvious, but Ohstyen'tohskon
stood impassively, with her eyes averted. As Elizabeth turned, she disappeared
into the shadows.

He
was asleep, as she had sometimes imagined him to be. And thin, his face so
terribly thin. They had shaved his face. Behind his head and shoulders was a
rolled bearskin, lifting him very slightly. His face was turned toward her, his
arms crossed on his belly. The wound was hidden in shadow, and Elizabeth was
glad of it.

Carefully,
quietly, she went down on both knees beside the sleeping platform. Putting her
face next to his, she inhaled his smells, all healthy: clean sweat tinged with
something herbal, something she almost recognized. Elizabeth leaned closer to
feel his heat, and kept herself suspended just so, her face within inches of
his. Every muscle in her ached with it, but she stayed, breathing in the breath
that he exhaled, until the trembling of her arms threatened to wake him. She
sat back on her heels.

He
opened his eyes then. A smile flitted across his face, and he closed them
again.

"Boots,"
he said softly. "I see you."

His
voice, and the pleasure of it.

"Sleep,"
she said, touching one fingertip to the corner of his mouth. His hand came up
and caught her wrist, and she inhaled sharply.

"Come,"
he said, and drew her up onto the platform beside him.

She
hesitated. "Your wound," she whispered.

But
he hushed her, pulling gently until she had slid over him and he could tuck her
between himself and the wall. He had broken out in a sweat, but then so had
she. She put her face into the curve of his throat.

"I
thought I would never see you again." Her fingers curled around his arm,
pressing with new strength, pressing hard. Hard enough to make him flinch; hard
enough to mark him with five small angry—blue moons.

"I
never doubted you," he whispered, holding her as tightly as he dared.
"Never for a moment.

He
did not sleep well. Coasting on the tide of his dreams, sometimes frantic,
sometimes resigned, Nathaniel rose and fell and rose again to assure himself
that she was there. Whole, and healthy, if not unmarked. She slept with her
mouth slightly open, and her brow creased in concentration, as if this were
another task set before her to prove her worth.

The
sun rose and found its way through the smoke vents into the high, arched
ceiling of the long house and with it he could see more of her. Old bruises,
faded to the yellow—green of a cyclone sky. Overlapping, they arched across her
cheekbones in the shape of a hand. Nathaniel counted the livid center of each
bruise, and was overcome with a numbing anger, more disabling and deeper than
any he had ever known. This she had endured for him. This and more, for he
could see the healing cuts high on her chest.

There
were not many men in the bush, and he knew them all. It was not unknown for a
man to go out of his head with loneliness, or vicious with greed. But the man
who had put his hands on Elizabeth had not been lonely; he had just liked his
work. There was only one person who could be responsible, and Nathaniel groaned
inwardly to think that he had sent her off on her own, worried about every
danger except the one that she had met, and somehow, escaped. There was a story
here, and one that would be hard for her to tell. And harder to listen to.
Give me a tenth of her strength
, he
thought.

At
his back, the sounds of the long house rose gradually. Women's voices, coaxing,
impatient, amused. Hungry children, men murmuring in half—sleep. The scraping
of the mortar as the daylong task of grinding corn began. Nathaniel liked the
long house in the early mornings, the routine and comfort of it, but right now
he wished for the most rudimentary shelter in the bush, where he would have his
wife to himself, and he could talk to her free of curious ears and eyes. Where
he could really look at her, and learn what he feared: the full extent of what
she had suffered.

He
heard a shuffling behind him, and saw from the corner of his eye that
He—Who—Dreams stood there, watching them. The weight of the faith keeper's gaze
was not so heavy that Nathaniel had to turn, and after a while he went away.
Nathaniel felt a twinge of regret, for he liked the old man and owed him many
favors, but now there was Elizabeth. Elizabeth with her bruised face and the
shuddering that shook her even in her sleep. The faith keeper's curiosity would
have to wait.

There
was a harsh clearing of a throat behind him: the clan mother, with her bitter
tea, and her hard black eyes that were beginning to fail her. Now he did turn,
for there was no denying her. This was Falling—Day's mother and his own daughter's
great—grandmother, and in her face he saw what his first wife might have become
with old age. She cleared her throat again, and he sat up, knowing that he
could not escape her vigilance, or her tongue.

He
took the bowl from her hands and drank it in two hasty swallows, grimacing.
Beside him, Elizabeth stirred, and he saw the old woman squinting at her. Then
she met his gaze, and her mouth hardened.

"You
are not yet healed," she said, not bothering to lower her voice.

"But
with your help I will heal, Grandmother," he said, hoping to work a small
opening in her resistance. Elizabeth's arrival did not please her; he had
anticipated that. But then, nothing much did please her.

She
grunted, and narrowed her eyes at him. Poked a hard finger in the direction of
his wound, so that he twitched.

"Breathe
deep!" she hissed at him. "Or your lung will rot like a bad plum, and
you will drown in your own fluids."

Nathaniel
did as he was told. She watched him for three breaths, and then smiled sourly
as he coughed, shaking her head.

"I
will send your food," she said, turning away. And then, over her shoulder:
"And clothes for her."

"Her
name is Elizabeth," Nathaniel called after her.

She
turned back. "Erisavet." The old woman's mouth twisted around the
unfamiliar sounds, and she shook her head. "You gave her the name
Bone—in—Her—Back?"

"Chingachgook
gave it to her."

"Ah.
Well, the biggest bone that one has is in her head. Stubborn as the sun in the
summer sky." And she went off.

He
turned back to Elizabeth, and found her eyes fixed on him.

"Bone
in my head?" she asked sleepily. "Bone—Head. Yes, it feels
appropriate right now." For a moment the look on her face was much the
same as the one the old woman had given him. Then she sat up and with quick
hands she touched his forehead, his cheek, his shoulder, ran her fingers down
his arms and then gently touched his chest. Her gaze fixed there, at the wound.

He
leaned back on his hands so she could see and watched the emotions moving over
her face, pressing her lips hard together. He was taken up by the strong urge
to gather her to him and rock her until she could smile at him again.

"Richard
told them I shot you and ran away," she said, her voice hoarse with anger.

"I
told them otherwise."

"But
they believed him." She glanced up at him, and away. He caught her chin
between his thumb and forefinger and brought her gaze back to his own.

"They
did not believe him," he corrected her. "They were testing you."

"She
doesn't trust me," Elizabeth said. "The old woman—Ohstyen'tohskon."

"Made—of—Bones,"
Nathaniel translated. "And she doesn't trust anybody. She nursed me
well," he added. "So she couldn't dislike me too much."

"Nathaniel
...," Elizabeth began, and then her voice trailed away.

He
put a finger to her mouth, shaking his head very slightly. "Not
here," he said. "Not now. First we eat—you can't afford to miss a
meal, Boots, from what I can see. And then we'll go down to the river—is Robbie
here?"