Into the Wilderness (94 page)

There
was a subtle shifting in Falling—Day's expression. "The only way to bring
Squirrel up truly as a Kahnyen’keháka woman would be to send her to my mother's
hearth."

"Oh,
no." Elizabeth tensed in her surprise. "You don't want to send her
away—”

“I
did not say that," the older woman interrupted gently. "She is
Nathaniel's child, and she must learn to live between two worlds as he does. It
would be wrong to send her away from him, just as it would be wrong to let her
forget my daughter, her mother. Do you agree?"

Elizabeth
nodded. "Yes, I do."

"And
when you hold your own child in your arms? Will Squirrel still be welcome at
your hearth?"

Elizabeth
felt
her face flooding with indignation, but the older woman held up a hand to keep
her from speaking.

"I
offend you. But I speak the truth: it would be better for her to stay with us
if she cannot be sure of her welcome once this new child arrives."

After
a long silence in which she knew herself never to have been so closely
observed,
Elizabeth
said: "Nathaniel has given me many gifts, but none is so precious to me as
his daughter. My own child could not be more loved."

"Bone—in—Her—Back,"
Falling—Day said in the Kahnyen’keháka language. "You are a strong woman.
You have shown yourself to be braver than most, and a true friend. And you bear
Wolf—Running—Fast children who will bring great joy to this family." She
hesitated, her brown eyes probing deeper. "I will trust you with the care
of my granddaughter, but I will watch you."

"I
wouldn't have it any other way," Elizabeth answered. "And I will need
your help."

There
was a flash of satisfaction on the older woman's face, and
Elizabeth
was struck suddenly by her
resemblance to Made—of—Bones. She pointed this out.

Falling—Day
blinked. "All women are alike when they fear for their children," she
said. "Kahnyen’keháka or O'seronni, when a mother rises to defend her own
she is like sister bear."

There
was the sound of Hannah's high, lilting laughter.

There's nothing more dangerous or meaner
than a crowd of stupid men.

Elizabeth
thought of Jack Lingo, and there was a familiar tingling, the sparking of
nerves all the way to her fingers. At the time, standing over his bloodied
body, she had thought that she would never again be able to raise a hand in
anger, but now she knew that she was capable of more, and perhaps worse.

"Yes,"
she agreed. "That is a lesson I have already begun to learn."

When
they had been home almost a week,
Elizabeth
left the cabin in the early morning to fetch water and found Robbie and
Chingachgook sharing a pipe on the porch. Robbie was dressed for travel.

"Oh,"
she said. The prickling in her throat wouldn't allow any more of a greeting.

"Aye,
lassie, it's time that I was awa'. Dinna fash yersel', Boots. Ye've no' seen
the last o' Robbie MacLachlan."

Robbie
was the only person besides Nathaniel to call her Boots, and the simple
affection in his voice brought her dangerously close to tears. It had been just
three months since she had come to know the old Scot, but she could hardly
imagine being without him.

"Grandfather,"
she said to Chingachgook. "Is there nothing we can do to convince Robbie
to stay in Paradise?"

Chingachgook's
smile moved his face into a mass of wrinkles in which his dark eyes almost
disappeared. "I have known this man for many years," he said. "It
is not an accident that my people gave him the name Wind—Walker."

Nathaniel
came out onto the porch and
Elizabeth
caught up his hand, squeezed it hard.

"Robbie
is leaving."

He
nodded. "I thought he might, soon."

"What
about the old schoolhouse?" she asked. "Couldn't he have it for his
own? It's in good repair."

Before
Nathaniel could reply, Robbie spoke up.

"Ach,
weel." He sighed, and shifted his rifle sling to a more comfortable spot
on his back. "I canna deny but it's a temptation. I will make ye a
promise, lass. Should this winter be as unco' hard an' lonely as was the last,
then I will come tae hide in yon wee cabin, 'gin ye still care tae see the
likes o' me on Hidden Wolf."

"You're
always welcome," Nathaniel said.

"We'll
look for you in the spring,"
Elizabeth
added, smiling now.

Robbie
took leave of Nathaniel and then Chingachgook, grasping the old man by the hand
and the lower arm.

"Great—Snake,"
he said, with a sad smile. "Will I see ye again, auld friend, 'gin I come
in the spring?"

Chingachgook
gave him a thoughtful look. "The Maker of Life is good," he said,
putting one huge, rough hand on Elizabeth's arm in the gentlest of touches. "I
hope to see my great—grandson before he calls me to the Council Fire. But don't
wait too long, my brother, I think he grows impatient and will not be put off
very long."

"I'll
willna tarry, come spring," said Robbie. "I remember Nathaniel's
naming ceremony, muny years sync, and I wa dna miss his son's, no' for a' the
deer in the wood."

Elizabeth
touched Chingachgook's hand. "Perhaps this child is not a son," she
said, and was surprised to see him almost laugh at her.

"When
I fly at night, I have seen my great—grandson in your arms," he said, as
if this were proof positive. Which,
Elizabeth
realized, it was, for him.

Robbie
whistled to Treenie, who came out of her sleeping place under the porch with
her tail in a great sweep. "Come, lass, we're awa' hame."

At
last he turned to Elizabeth. "Walk wi' me a while."

"Go
along," Nathaniel said, taking the water bucket from her. "But not
too far, mind."

"I'll
send her back straightawa'," Robbie promised.

When
they had walked a few minutes in silence, he cleared his throat.

"Weel,
lassie." The soft wattles of flesh on his neck were flushed bright with
color.
Elizabeth
rubbed the heel of her hand over Treenie's bony skull and waited, wondering
what he had on his mind that he could not say in front of the men.

"Ye
ken I've spent some time in the village wi' Axel," he began. "For
he's a guid man and one I trust. A wee bit free wi’ the ale betimes, but he's
no got a crook it bone in his body, and a mind sac sharp as yer own. And
there's nane sac guid as his dauchter. Anna is a fine woman.

"Yes,"
Elizabeth said slowly. "I think quite a lot of Axel and of Anna, as
well." When they had gone to the village for church services, Anna was the
only one—besides Curiosity, and some of the children—to show
Elizabeth
a really warm welcome.

"They
are mair than guid friends, ye ken. They are the kind ye can count on when
others are bluidy—minded."

They
had come to the small stand of white birch which marked the turning of the path
down toward the strawberry fields, and Robbie paused.

"Wha'
I mean tae say is this: if there's trouble, then get ye tae Axel, for it's gey
certain he wilma desert ye in yer time o' need."

"Robbie,
you frighten me," said Elizabeth. "With Nathaniel and Hawkeye and Runs-from-Bears,
even Chingachgook, as old as he is—why would I have need of Axel's help?"

"I
hae no' a door that yer menfolk can stan' for ye; dinna mistake me. But there's
rough talk in the toon, lass, and I fear it will come tae a bad end. Truth be
told, 'gin I could help it, I wa dna leave at a'. But I made a promise tae an
auld friend that I mun keep."

Elizabeth
considered at length. "You know more than you are telling me," she
concluded.

He
nodded reluctantly, watching her from the corner of his eye. "Yestere'en I
paid a ca' on yer faither

She
shot him a surprised look. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of her
stomach, unease born of distrust.

On
her second day home,
Elizabeth
had gone with
Nathaniel to call on her father and brother, but a very grim—faced Curiosity
had told her that the judge and Julian had just left for
Albany
, on business they would not name.

She
had never seen Curiosity so unsure of herself. Just yesterday afternoon,
Runs-from-Bears had come in from his scouting to report that the two had
returned home.

"Why
did you not tell me you were going, Robbie?"

"Aye,
weel. I thoucht it wad be better tae talk tae the judge man tae man, ye ken.
And I didna tell ye straight after, for the twa o' them put me sair oot o'
sorts.

"My
father is not resigned," she said, an acknowledgment rather than a
question.

"Tae
say the verra least," Robbie agreed. "Lass, let me speak plain. I wa
dna fear yer faither anger 'gin it werena for yer brother. Taegither they will
stop at naethin' tae see their will done."

"I
must go see him."

"Aye,
that is a start. P'rhaps the idea o' ye wi' hairn will do some guid."

Self—consciously,
Elizabeth
put a
hand to her waist. She doubted her father would see her condition without being
told; it was a thought she did not enjoy.

"Robbie,"
she said slowly. "Why tell me this and not Nathaniel?"

He
hesitated for a moment. "Lass, 'gin I had a son, I could dna love him mair
than Nathaniel, do ye ken the truth o' that?"

Elizabeth
nodded slowly.

"He's
a rare mannie, is Nathaniel. Gey braw, and canty. But he's got a bad habit o'
underestimatin' men wha' are weaker than he is. He hasna lamed that weak men
are tae be feared."

She
said, "You think he should fear my father?"

Robbie
stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Nathaniel thinks the judge a foolish
auld man, no' worth much troublin' ower. But worse, he's disremembered yer
brother, and yer brother is nae man's fool."

A
quick memory came to Elizabeth of Julian as a four—year—old, during one of the
judge's rare visits to
England
.
She could almost feel the short fingers, sticky with marmalade, wound
stubbornly in her skirts; he had torn the fabric before he could be dragged
away to greet the stranger who was his father. That evening Julian had
disappeared, and stayed away for two whole days, secluded in the depths of the
kitchen cabinet where he could hear the news of the house and still be warm and
have enough to eat when all had gone to their beds. Only the cook's need of a
rarely used jelly mold had uncovered him. When asked what he had been about, he
had looked surprised that the adults could not see the sense of his plan. "I
wished to make you unhappy," he had said. "Not myself."

"Julian
is not stupid," she agreed. "And he is incredibly stubborn." She
sighed. "Robbie, tell me truly what you think."

"I
think that with yer brother's direction, a man like Judge Middleton is mair
dangerous than Moses Southern. Southern may fool with yer traps and burn yer
crops, but yer fait her weapon is the kind that Nathaniel canna stan up tae.

"The
law," said
Elizabeth
.

"Aye,"
agreed Robbie. "The law."

* *
*

Hawkeye
and Nathaniel both insisted on coming along, and so they set out immediately,
in spite of a light rain.
Elizabeth
realized that her dislike of bad weather had been worn away as cleanly as her
regard for many of aunt Merriweather's social niceties. But still, she did not
want to appear before the judge with straggling hair and so she wore her summer
cape with the hood pulled down low, and gave up her moccasins for her old
nankeen walking boots, solid and thick and suddenly much heavier than she
remembered.

"The
man won't thank you for getting' him out of his bed," Hawkeye observed,
squinting up at the storm clouds.

"No,
but at least we can be sure to find him in."

Nathaniel
grimaced slightly. "I'm not of a mind to go running after the man, Boots.
When he wants to talk to us, he knows where we are."

With
Robbie's concerns so vividly in her memory,
Elizabeth
said nothing. She hoped that Robbie
was wrong about her father and his intentions. But more than that, she hoped
that he had been wrong about Nathaniel's unwillingness to see the dangers her
father represented.

When
they reached the river and passed over the small bridge, Hawkeye paused to look
out over the water. "Ducks coming along," he said with a small frown.
"Another week or so, the fledglings will be 'bout ready to fly."