Into the Wilderness (85 page)

"He
will be pleased."

There
was a shout from the crowd outside, voices raised in a wild cheer. "Yes,"
Elizabeth
said,
drawing a shaky breath. "He will be very pleased."

Splitting—Moon
nodded at her, and turned away.

With
nowhere to be alone,
Elizabeth
lay down with her face to the wall, and put one palm flat on her lower belly.
How could she have not noticed, how could she have overlooked what her own body
tried to tell her? It was not the Kahnyen’keháka food to blame for her upset
stomach. She blushed at her own dull wits. Splitting—Moon, who had never borne
a child, had seen what she should have known for herself.

What
she had to make known to Nathaniel.

* * *

Nathaniel
had looked in on
Elizabeth
,
and finding her asleep, he had gone to watch the game. He stood on a rise not
too close to the field, where he could keep one eye on the long house waiting
for her to appear. His injury did not hurt him especially, except for the fact
that it kept him out of the game. He liked the challenge of baggataway, the way
it pushed him to his limits.

He
drew a deep breath into his lungs. The tissues expanded creakily, but with less
reluctance than had been the case even yesterday.

On
the far side of the village the river ran south to join the great lake the
French called Champlain. On its bank, a flash of movement caught Nathaniel's
eye. A single canoe pulling up. Visitors were not surprising: Kahnyen’keháka
would come from far away for the Strawberry Festival and there would be many
more canoes before the afternoon was out. But Stone—Splitter was a cautious
leader, and the sentry was already on his way to intercept the new arrivals.

Two
men. By his size and shape, Nathaniel recognized one of them as Stands—Crooked,
the scout who had first brought the news of
Elizabeth
's approach. He had been gone from
the village ever since, Nathaniel realized.

The
other man was Kahnyen’keháka from his dress, and bearing, and walk. Kahnyen’keháka
in the way he looked around himself, and the way he wore the musket slung on
his back. Kahnyen’keháka in everything except that he stood a head taller than
any of them, and the scalp lock on his tattooed skull was not black, but
red—gold.

Elizabeth
at
his elbow. Nathaniel turned to her.

"What
is it?" she asked, seeing the look on his face. "Trouble?"

"Maybe,"
he said. "I'm not sure." He jerked his head in the direction of the
river.

Her
eyes were good, and her powers of observation better.

"He
looks like Richard," she said, her voice faltering.

The
two men were approaching the playing field at a quick pace. There was a cry of
welcome, and then another. Nathaniel heard the name being called out:
Inon—Yahoti'.

"Who
is that, Nathaniel?"

"Throws—Far,"
he said. "I doubt he answers to Samuel Todd anymore."

"Richard's
brother?"
Elizabeth
's
hand on his forearm, pressing hard. "His brother? I thought— Mr. Bennett
said—"

"That
he was dead? Died in battle? Well, that's what they think down on the
Mohawk."

"You
knew."

"Of
course I knew he was alive. The Kahnyen’keháka keep track of each other, you
see. He fought for the British during the war, and moved up farther north when
things went bad."

"My
God," said
Elizabeth
.
"Richard's brother. Does he know?"

"I'd
be surprised if he didn't know his brother was alive. But on the other hand, I
doubt he's expecting him to show up." He thought for a moment. "Wait
here," he said, thinking of finding He—Who—Dreams, the best source of
information among the men.

Her
chin lifted. "I will not," she said firmly. The furrow had appeared
suddenly between her brows, and Nathaniel almost laughed out loud to see it.

"Then
come along." He sighed, taking up her hand.

"Wait."
Elizabeth
glanced toward the crowds of people, and then back toward the long house She
swallowed nervously, unable to meet his eye.

"What
is it?" he asked.

"I
saw Richard," she said in a rush.

"Ah."
Nathaniel put an arm around her shoulders, and bent his head to hers. "And
how was that?"

"I
told him that I would answer his charges here."

"You
look nervous enough about it," he noted, smoothing a hand over her hair
and tugging lightly on her plait. "You've got nothing to fear, Boots.
We'll deal with Todd, and the day after tomorrow we'll be on our way
home."

Elizabeth
looked
up at him. "Do you believe that?"

"Aye,"
he said. "I do."

"But
Nathaniel—" She paused, a muscle in her cheek twitching. "What does
it mean, his brother coming here like this?"

"The
sachem sent for him," Nathaniel said. "Probably He—Who—Dreams put the
idea in his head."

"He—Who—Dreams
takes a great deal of interest in Richard's welfare,"
Elizabeth
noted. "I suppose he must have
known him as a boy when he lived here."

"That
ain't it exactly," Nathaniel said with a sidelong glance. "It was
He—Who—Dreams who led the raiding party that brought Richard and his brother to
the village."

This
last piece of information seemed to have robbed
Elizabeth
of the powers of speech, a state
Nathaniel knew would last only until she had chewed on it long enough to get the
next issue fixed in her mind. He couldn't predict what it would be, but he did
know it would give him something to consider.
Loving this woman is afar sight easier than keeping up with her
, he
thought.
God grant me the energy.

He
let a hand rest on the small of her back. "You realize, Boots," he
said, stopping to get her attention. "That I have never known anybody who
makes me think so hard as you do."

She
closed one eye, considering. "Is that good or bad?"

"Oh,
good," he said, his hand sliding down the curve of her hip.

Her
smile was a rare and especially beautiful thing these days. She put her hand
over his where it rested on her hip. "That's lovely to hear, Nathaniel. But
right now—" She looked through the crowds around the baggataway game,
which was just coming to an end. "Where has Richard's brother gone?"

The
sound of a single drum began, accompanied by one high, summoning voice.

"The
Stick Beating Dance," he said. "That's it, then. It's a curative
rite, but I'll wager Richard wouldn't ask for it for himself. That's why they
sent for Throws—Far, because he can request it for his brother. How did his
wounds look, when you saw him?"

"Festering,
the one on his hand that I could see," she said.

"So
that makes sense, then."

"I
should be very curious to see Richard right now,"
Elizabeth
said.

"Well,
for once Todd ain't in an obstinate frame of mind," Nathaniel noted.
"There he comes now."

* * *

The
whole village seemed eager to be a part of the dance, and so Elizabeth, who was
tall for her sex but not so tall as the group of men who milled around the
fire, could not fix Richard in her view. Eventually they worked their way to
one side, where two singers had situated themselves on a bench. One of them was
the canoe maker who blinked at her solemnly as he beat on his water drum. The
other singer had a rattle constructed out of a length of horn, stopped up at
one end and fixed with a wooden handle at the other.

Two
groups were forming on either side of the fire, of both men and women.

"I
should join them," Nathaniel said. "Will you—”

“Oh,
no."
Elizabeth
would have laughed out of nervousness, but the mood of the crowd was subdued
and focused, and so she sent him on his way with a little wave of her hand.

When
Nathaniel had disappeared into the dancers, she found herself trembling with
relief.
Elizabeth
was thankful for this extra time to think about how to say to him what there
was to say. The idea was still fresh and unfamiliar enough to make her jerk
with surprise, and flush with a combination of pride and reserve. What did a
lady say, beyond the terribly awkward phrases of the drawing room?

"Nothing,"
Elizabeth
muttered out loud to herself. A lady said nothing, had no real words for this
condition, because it was one never discussed publicly. Announcements were made
in a neutral voice over tea:
Young
Winslow and his lady are in hopeful expectation,
her uncle might say.

The
singing rose another notch, a wonderful, throaty chanting that was almost
hypnotic in its rhythms. Nathaniel moved past in the line, his torso bent over
as he danced, all his concentration there, on moving himself in those small,
concise steps that sent He—Who—Dreams' prayers off toward the heavens.

A
bubble of nausea rose unexpectedly in
Elizabeth
's
throat and she swallowed it back down, taken by surprise. It was the crowd, she
supposed, and the heat of the fire, and the excitement—still no clear view of
Richard. But then aunt Merriweather would ask what she might be thinking,
standing out on her own in the evening breeze, in her delicate condition.
Elizabeth
had a sudden
longing for her aunt, who would take her by the hands and look into her eyes
and see what was there.
I have had good
news of you
, she might say with a smile. Aunt Merriweather loved children
excessively, but
Elizabeth
thought of her cousin Marianne at an assembly ball, her mouth in a small moue
of disdain as she whispered behind her fan: "Imagine Jane Bingley dancing,
and so obviously
enceinte.
"

What a terribly awkward thing it is to
be English
,
Elizabeth thought, watching a young Kahnyen’keháka woman heavy with child
advancing with the shuffling step of the dance. All at once she realized how
many others there were with a child on the way or one straddling a hip and
another at the breast. She could manage this. She would have a child,
Nathaniel's child, and a life with him, and her work—Stone—Splitter's voice
drifted through her head and she answered it firmly. She
would
have her work, even if it was not what she had imagined it to
be. She could be happy.

I am happy
. It was true,
in spite of all that had happened. She was content, and suddenly she was not so
worried about how to tell Nathaniel. The words would come, when the time and
setting were appropriate. Perhaps tonight when they retired, or perhaps
tomorrow. When she had grown used to the idea herself and made herself
acquainted with the child, who appeared in her thoughts already as an infant;
she could almost feel the weight of it in her arms. She tried again to count
days, and failed. As best she understood these things, this child would come
early in the new year. If all went well.

She
was jerked out of her daydream by Robbie, who materialized behind her.

"Have
ye need of a translator?" he asked quietly. "I thoucht ye might like
tae ken what He—Who—Dreams has tae say."

Elizabeth
nodded, glancing up and behind at Robbie. "Did you see—" she
whispered, and he nodded.

"I
did."

He—Who—Dreams
raised his voice, putting an end to their discussion.

The
lines of dancers kept time with the drum, a hundred feet in soft moccasins
moving back and forth. There was the swoosh of long fringe and the clinking of
beads and shells and silver ornaments. Many of the men wore knee bands sewn
over and over with rattles made from deer hooves, and these set a steady pace.

The
sun had fallen to the horizon and hesitated there, the curve of its great belly
resting on the edge of the world, bedded in a sky that melded from deep indigo
to a pale lavender.

"Welcome,
Throws—Far," He—Who—Dreams called, raising the ceremonial stick in his
hand. "We welcome our brother who comes to us from the Caughnawaga—"
He gestured. "He asks us in his brother's name to offer up our songs so
that Cat—Eater might heal and walk among us again.

The
crowd parted and Throws—Far appeared, carrying a basket. A huge man, broad and
layered with muscle, he bore more than the usual share of battle scars.
Elizabeth
was close
enough to see the details of the tat toning on his face and head. He had
painted his face in yellow and blue, four stripes to a cheek. But no manner of
dress and no amount of ornament could hide his coloring, the pale skin that
resisted tanning, the coppery hair and vivid blue eyes. Those eyes met hers and
she saw his attention narrow to a hard focus.
Elizabeth
stepped involuntarily backward and
closer to Robbie.