Into the Wilderness (88 page)

She
made a flicking gesture with her fingers, as if to brush away his words. "When
are you leaving?"

"You
know that we have unfinished business with Cat—Eater after the Feather
Dance."

"This
morning Throws—Far left us," she said. "His brother went with
him."

Nathaniel's
sleepiness was suddenly gone. "Where is Otter?"

Made—of—Bones
spread out one hand and closed it in a sweeping curl of her fingers. "Gone,
with the warriors. And his Windigo rifle." Her mouth turned up at one
corner. "
Vous et nul autre
."

Elizabeth
felt
her skin rise and flush all along her back. Nathaniel put a hand on her arm; it
was only that, its warmth and weight, that kept her from shaking. He was
staring at the old woman; she looked back at him, one white brow raised, and
then she left them.

"Nathaniel,"
Elizabeth
said
hoarsely. "What does it mean?"

Outside,
the faith keeper's song began, calling the Kahnyen’keháka to the festivities.

Nathaniel
swung his legs down so that he was sitting on the edge of the sleeping
platform, all tension and concentration where just a few minutes ago he had
been sleeping with his body curled around hers, his hand on her belly.

"Otter
hasn't gone after Richard," she said out loud, wanting it to be so.

Nathaniel
shrugged. "Maybe not."

Elizabeth
thought of Otter at the Stick Beating Dance, his gaze always fixed on Richard.

"But
perhaps," she conceded reluctantly. "Otherwise he would have taken
his leave of us."

Nathaniel
grunted, running a hand through his hair. "He don't know what he's getting
himself into."

Elizabeth
was torn between worry and irritation, and with something smaller and meaner:
she did not want to chase a nineteen—year—old bent on revenge into another
wilderness, for the sake of a man whose greed had nearly cost her everything
she held dear in life. Or even, God forgive her, for his own sake.

She
leaned forward to put her chin on Nathaniel's shoulder. "I owe him a great
deal," she said. "But it is time to go home."

"We'll
go home," he agreed, touching her cheek. "The boy has the right to
fight his own ghosts."

They
took leave of Stone—Splitter and He—Who—Dreams formally, presenting their small
store of tobacco as a gift. Then they visited each of the clan mothers, and
accepted well wishes. She—Remembers gave
Elizabeth
a carry bag decorated with elaborate quill work and beads. Two—Suns had a pair
of fine doeskin leggings. It occurred to her, as it had every day that she had
spent with these people, that everything she wore and everything she ate came
from them, but that this was taken for granted: their generosity was
fundamental to their character. She wished she had some way to repay them for
their kindness, and said this to Robbie, who was busy with his gear.

"I've
no' a doot the day will come when they will need your friendship," he said
quietly. "Or that ye'll remember the kindness shewn ye.

Made—of—Bones
came down to the river at the last minute, Splitting—Moon behind her. They had
provided baskets of herbs and other gifts for the Kahnyen’keháka at Hidden Wolf
and Elizabeth saw the old woman's eyes moving over the way these things had
been packed in the canoe. Then she repeated the messages she had already given
Nathaniel for her daughter, until she was satisfied that he had each of them
word for word.

She
seemed to hesitate and then she turned to
Elizabeth
.
"The O'seronni medicine to keep the
brûlot
away, the one that turns your skin brown—do you have any of it?"

Elizabeth
glanced at Nathaniel, who looked as puzzled as she felt. "I do not,"
she said. "Nathaniel?"

"There's
a half bottle, in my pack."

The
old woman produced a small satisfied grunt. "Stay away from it," she
said to
Elizabeth
.
"And suffer the bites." And she left them without another word of
farewell.

"What
was that all about?"
Elizabeth
asked Splitting—Moon. "I know she is upset with me, but to wish me bitten
. . . ?"

"
Le pouliot
," said Splitting—Moon,
glancing over her shoulder. "It is poisonous.

"I
assumed that pennyroyal is poisonous to the black fly But not to us—I used it,
we all used it,"
Elizabeth
protested, her nose flaring as she remembered the strong tang of the sticky liquid.

"It
is poison to the child," Splitting—Moon said, her gaze firmly excluding
Nathaniel and Robbie from the discussion.

"In
any form?"
Elizabeth
asked faintly.

"No.
Only if you drink tea made of it. If you put on your skin, it would not cause
harm."

Elizabeth
frowned. "Then I don't take her meaning."

"My
grandmother would counsel against any O'seronni medicine for a breeding woman.
But it always puts her in a bad mood to have her family leave her."
Splitting—Moon offered a rare half—smile. "I am afraid that she does
indeed wish you bitten."

* * *

Paddling
downriver,
Elizabeth
looked back to see Made—of—Bones standing on a rise above them. The force of
her personality subdued by distance,
Elizabeth
saw her for the old woman she was, in the curve of her spine and the sparse
white hair lifting in the wind. A woman who had lost most of the people she
loved, and feared to lose more. Suddenly
Elizabeth
wished she had made more of an effort with her.

Treenie
whimpered a little and put her head on
Elizabeth
's
knee, and when she looked up again, they had turned a corner and Made—of—Bones
was gone.

She
leaned toward Nathaniel and whistled softly so that he turned his head toward
her. Behind her Robbie had already begun singing.

"She
knew. Made—of—Bones knew about the child," said
Elizabeth
.

Nathaniel
nodded.

"Do
you think she told Richard?"

"She
must have," he said.

"Otherwise
why would he take off the way he did?" Nathaniel asked, the sweep of his
paddle as steady as his breathing.

Then is the question
, she
thought. Of the answer,
Elizabeth
was not quite so sure as Nathaniel seemed to be.

Late
June, 1793

By
their fifth day on the vast lake called Champlain by the French who had claimed
it, and Regioghne by the Hode'noshaunee, who knew it was the province not of
men, but the warrior spirit who commanded the wind and waves,
Elizabeth
had learned that Robbie could not
paddle without singing.

He
sang songs of the fur traders, the marching songs that he had learned in twenty
years as a soldier, and a great number of Kahnyen’keháka songs, one of which
the canoe maker had composed and delivered with the craft:

The canoe is very fast.

It is mine.

All day long I splash away.

I paddle along, I paddle along.

When
he found that his music had a willing audience, Robbie opened up his treasure
chest: the ballads and songs of his boyhood in the Scottish border counties. He
had a deep, clear voice and an ear for a tune, and his music hung over the
water like the shimmering dragonflies that followed them everywhere. Just now
he was humming a melody that had been haunting him for days, a simple song that
Elizabeth
had
begun to hear even in her dreams.

While
a canoe was not always the most comfortable form of travel,
Elizabeth
found that with Robbie behind her
and Nathaniel in front, she was content. Shifting her weight to ease the ache
in her knees, she fumbled her paddle and accidentally sprayed Treenie, so that
she produced a startled but sleepy woof in response. Nathaniel glanced back
over his shoulder at the dog and then grinned at
Elizabeth
.

It
took a moment to get her paddle back in the water in the right rhythm. The men
did not need her help, but she wanted the challenge of the task. She needed
something to distract her from the constant preoccupation with her own inner
workings, for sometime in the past few days a small kernel of nausea had taken
up permanent residence. When she woke in the morning it was lodged high in her
belly and almost possible to ignore. By midday it had grown like a spider's
web, working its way up to her chest, and by the late afternoon she could no
longer take note of anything but the creeping fingers, pressing in the softest
flesh at the back of her throat.

I have learned to cope with many
indignities in the past weeks
she thought to herself
But never will I become accustomed to being
indisposed in public view.

This
day was hot and sunny, but the sweat on her brow was more a signal that she was
approaching a crisis. Then she noticed that the sound of the water was
shifting—she could hear white water now before she saw any sign of it, even
before Nathaniel signaled to head to the shore of the little cove ahead of
them.
Elizabeth
's
spirits lifted in the hope that she would be able to keep her distress to herself
for once.

"No
rest for the wicked," noted Robbie cheerfully, heaving his great frame out
of the cramped space as they pulled to the shore.
Elizabeth
was up and away before the men
could secure their paddles, returning very shortly to rinse her mouth with lake
water.

"But
perhaps a wee snooze," he continued as if there hadn't been any
interruption in his thoughts. "It's no' tae early tae make camp, dinna ye
think, Nathaniel?"

Elizabeth
cast
him a sour glance. "Robbie. There are hours of light left, and this is not
a long carry.

"Och,
wed, lass," he said, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. "Auld bones,
ye ken."

"Oh,
I ken, I certainly do." She hefted her pack with an annoyed tug. "Do
you think I haven't noticed that we stop earlier every day? Nathaniel, you need
not coddle me. I am perfectly fine."

"Maybe
it's not you we're stopping for," Nathaniel answered easily. "I'm
still healing, in case you forgot. And there's no hurry now, is there?"

Elizabeth
looked at her husband. He had stripped to the waist, and he stood before her in
nothing more than his breech clout sun—browned and glistening with sweat, the
muscles in his arms and shoulders tensed as he lifted his half of the canoe.
His wounds were still bright red patches on his chest and back, but she hadn't
heard him catch his breath or cough in days. In fact, he was looking very much
like a healthy male of the species, with grin on his face that told her he was
feeling anything but tired.

She
gave in after they had walked the mile of the carry. Above the sandy beach
where they would push off again there was a low bluff covered with scrub grass,
bracketed on one side by a great wall of wild roses in full bloom. Just beyond,
a stand of young birch and maple cast a blanket of cool shadow. Seeing all
this,
Elizabeth
acknowledged that a longer rest would be welcome, and the men set about making
camp.

She
went down to the lake, stripping off her moccasins to wiggle her toes in the
warm sand. When she had walked out to the point where the water almost reached
the hem of her overdress, she washed as best she could, glad to be rid of the
pennyroyal ointment even if the black fly had not yet settled for the evening.
She thought briefly of Made—of—Bones and Splitting—Moon, and for a moment she
wished herself back in the long house In the company of any knowledgeable woman
who would be able to tell her that what she was experiencing was normal,
because Elizabeth's greatest fear was that she would fail somehow in this, the
most basic of womanly functions.

Treenie
came capering into the water, plowing right past until she was nothing but a
slick of floating red fur and a button like black nose. Elizabeth considered
joining her, calculated the length of time it would take to dry out the doeskin
dress and leggings, and turned back to the shore where she waded, gathering as
many of the fresh—water mussels as she could carry in her tented skirt. They
were huge, bigger than her hand and pockmarked with shimmering limpets.