The Last Crossing (52 page)

“I do not know. But soon you will find out. The Lodge of the Sun is not much farther. Just beyond the edge of the village.”

Gaunt’s mouth tenses, but he leaves it at that. We ride on at the end of the train of Crow, orange and yellow daubs of light splashing the snow, boughs brushing our shoulders and shining greasy green in the flickering light.

A big clearing in the timber opens before us. The Crow are pressing into it, forming an arc before the biggest Indian lodge I’ve ever laid eyes on. The three of us shoulder our horses in beside Pretty Flag, whose eyes swivel to Potts, grip him in a coal-black stare. All around me, I hear the hostile murmur of Crow warriors. But Potts shows no sign of fear, simply sits with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle.

“He is my friend,” I say quickly to Pretty Flag, to explain Potts’s presence. “He sent word to us of the white man.”

Pretty Flag nods thoughtfully. “Potts is nothing to us. He begs his father-in-law for his daughter. Cries and pulls at his leg like a child.”

The words don’t get a rise out of Potts. He keeps his eyes fixed on the huge lodge gleaming in the light of the torches, glowing like old ivory piano keys. The Crow don’t build lodges of more than eighteen skins since such a show of pride is an offence to the spirits. This one is at least twenty-five skins, and they’re covered with pictures of buffalo, elk, deer, mountain sheep, horses, all painted in red, blue, yellow, black. Over the entrance a mighty sunburst of dyed porcupine quills is rising. A Holy Being’s vision brought home to the real world in bone-coloured hide, bright trader pigments, the finest of quillwork.

There is no sound but the snuffle of horses, the stamp of hooves, the creak of wooden saddle trees. Then Pretty Flag draws himself up
on his pony and yells for Born of a Horse to come out, there are white men who want to speak to him. His cry is taken up by the rest of the warriors, a quarrelsome, furious shout. The door flap of the Lodge of the Sun gives a twitch and the uproar dies. We all wait. Beside me, I hear the sharp suck of Gaunt’s breath.

The flap is thrown back, a figure passes through the doorway, straightens slowly to full height in the glare of the pine knots. The
bote
is tall, raw-boned, dressed like the Queen of Sheba in all her glory. She wears a red blouse hung with rows of abalone shell, a white doe-skin skirt, leggings so encrusted with brilliant beadwork they must be stiff as tin stovepipes. Her arms are circled from wrist to elbows with copper bracelets that make a jangled music as she sways gracefully towards us. Her hair is long, a clean part down the middle, a stripe of red paint on the scalp. Her nose is fierce, the nostrils flared, the mouth full-lipped.

The
bote’s
dark, hot eyes move over the Crow warriors, picking out each of them, noting them. Then her eyes fall on Gaunt, Potts, and me. She sends us a haughty look.

She begins to speak in a girlish voice too small and sweet for the body, a slight pause between each word for emphasis that allows me to follow most of what she’s saying. She chastises the warriors for their shouting, tells them they bellow like bulls in rut. I glance at Charles Gaunt. The sight of the
bote
, the size of her, her way of speaking has turned him into a pillar of staring salt.

Many of the Crow hang their heads while she dresses them down. But Pretty Flag isn’t a man to tug a forelock. When the
bote
is done scolding them, Pretty Flag’s scarred throat grinds out a handful of words. He says they shouted to make Born of a Horse hear. He says Born of a Horse does not hear anyone but her.

Angrily, the
bote
orders them to go. Potts, Gaunt, and I can stay. The Crow begin to slip off. The warriors’ guttural mumble of disappointment, the snort of ponies, the muffled trampling of hooves in snow, wanes away. The torches flit through the trees, disappear. We are alone with the
bote
.

Gaunt bucks up his nerve, says loudly to Potts, “I want you to ask this woman if my brother is in the lodge.”

Before Potts can utter a word, the
bote
answers Gaunt. “I am called Talks Different. I know a little English. Born of a Horse teaches me. We say the Our Father prayer together.”

Gaunt’s face jumps, then slides to another place, sheer relief. “It
is
Simon,” he gasps and piles off his horse. “It can be no one else.” The news has so unmanned him he stumbles like a drunk as he heads for the lodge. The
bote
flicks out a hand, plucks his sleeve, and stops him with her touch. Like a grand lady turning some interloper away from the door of the big house.

“Please allow me to see my brother,” Gaunt says. It is the next thing to a sob.

Potts and I are dismounting carefully, no sudden moves. Gaunt and the
bote
have locked eyes. You can almost see Gaunt’s spine stiffen with the strain of holding her gaze. But you’ve got to give him this, it’s clear he’s made up his mind not to be turned away. Slowly, he pulls his arm free from the
bote’s
grip, never taking his eyes from hers. “I
will
see him,” he repeats, voice louder, steadier. And to my surprise, the
bote
turns on her heel, leads Gaunt to the lodge door. They dip their shoulders, pass through.

Leaving Potts to hold the horses, I follow and find the two of them planted by a small fire under the smoke hole. The little blaze can’t light but a bit of the almighty big teepee; the farthest reaches are dark with shadow. I watch Gaunt, who is peering hard into the dimness while the
bote
fondly watches a small Indian boy playing at their feet. He’s sweeping the packed-earth floor with a goose wing, swirling patterns in the dust with the feathers.

From the shadows someone declares, “So you’ve come.” The child’s head shoots up, he lifts himself from the dirt and patters off, laughing, full of life, headed for the voice. Gaunt’s recognized it too. A man in a trance, he picks a burning stick from the fire to light his way, walks uncertainly towards the darkness. I follow behind the
bote
.

Gaunt’s brand licks shifting shapes out of the shadows, the little boy crawling up onto the lap of a man hooded in a blanket, the man pressing his cheek to the top of the child’s head. Gaunt is directly above them, sprinkling sparks from the stick. The child commences to whimper. He’s afraid of the stranger. The
bote’s
man clutches the child to his chest, slowly rocks him from side to side, crooning over and over, “Little bird. Little bird. Little bird. Do not be afraid.”

Gaunt whispers, “My God, Simon, you are alive.”

Simon lifts his eyes from the child. The blanket slips to his shoulders and reveals long blond hair, a beard of flaxen curls, corn-flower blue eyes. The
bote
suddenly steps to Gaunt’s side, bracelets chiming. “I am the one who saved him. Named him. He is mine,” she says with quiet authority, the confidence of a queen.

Gaunt doesn’t seem to hear her; he’s too busy wrestling with the sight of his brother. “You are so changed,” he says. “So changed. I recognized your voice at once, but to find you like this -” He sinks to his knees, throws aside his flame, fumbles his brother’s hands into his.

Simon smiles, a burst of white teeth and fond affection. “It is good to see you, Charles. You are right. Yes, I am changed. As you can see.” Looking about the tent, he remarks softly, “ ‘It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body.’ ”

The oddity of this doesn’t seem to strike Charles Gaunt. He’s too busy pelting on. “We’ll soon get you home. How glad Father will be. How he misses you. How I missed you, Simon. And to find you now, when I had come to the end of hope–”

Simon is bent on something else. Suddenly he says, “Where is Addington? Surely, you haven’t left him alone in the Crow camp? You know how impulsive and headstrong he is. I don’t want him making trouble here. It would be very dangerous.”

At Addington’s name, Gaunt’s face momentarily collapses. But he recovers, gathers himself for what he must say. “I don’t know how to tell you, Simon. Addington and I had words some months past. It led … led to a breach. Each of us went our own way.” He pauses. “No, perhaps the truth is I … I deserted him. Addington was hunting
a bear – you know his reckless schemes.” A final rush of breath. “And he was killed. Addington is dead, Simon.”

Simon goes still, sets the child gently on the ground. Talks Different sweeps the boy up, cradles him against the red blouse. Simon struggles out of the backrest, awkward, slow as an old man, lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder, lifts him to his feet, embraces him. Above Gaunt’s shoulder Simon’s face floats, calm, quiet. He strokes the back of his brother’s coat, a soothing, fatherly motion, as if one son in need of comfort has taken the place of another in his arms. He murmurs in Gaunt’s ear, “This dreadful, sad news about our brother. How sorry I am to hear it. All summer I waited for the two of you to arrive.”

Startled, Gaunt jerks back. “If you had word we sought you, why did you not send us a message?”

“No, Charles, not word as you mean it – word came to me in a dream. Living among the Crow, like Joseph in the land of the Egyptians, I dream many dreams. But let us move closer to the fire. My feet are cold, they’re always cold now. If you and your friend will lend me your shoulders–”

I step up, make myself known to him. “Custis Straw.”

“Simon Gaunt, but of course you are aware of that,” he says with a wry smile. We shake hands, all very correct. Then Simon leans on our shoulders and we move towards the fire supporting his slew-footed, teetery walk, the
bote
leading us, goose and her goslings. His brother’s first few lurching steps seemed to have stunned Charles Gaunt into silence. After several moments, he blurts out, “Look at you, Simon! What have these savages done to you!”

“Nothing except save my life. Or rather Talks Different did,” says Simon, nodding warmly in the direction of the
bote
. “You see, the Reverend Witherspoon led us into a blizzard. Six of my toes went black with gangrene from the frost. They needed to be amputated. Talks Different performed the surgery. She is a wonderful healer.”

Heartened by Simon’s praise, the
bote
breaks into a pleased smile, fingers the abalone shells on her blouse.

Gaunt is livid. “I tried. I tried to warn you about Witherspoon. But you wouldn’t listen.”

“It was Witherspoon who brought me here from England,” Simon says gently. “The hand of God is a hidden hand.”

The
bote
spreads robes by the fire and we seat ourselves on them. Gaunt on one side of his brother, the
bote
on the other, the little boy nestled in her lap. She fusses with Simon, arranging the blanket over his shoulders. Gaunt turns his eyes away from this display. Across from the three of them, I toss pieces of wood in the fire, feeding the ragged flames as Simon stretches his moccasins out to the blaze and begins to speak.

“Nine months ago, I dreamed of two starving horses. One a grey nag covered in sores, the other a blind horse. It had glass buttons for eyes. They came to the Lodge of the Sun. The whole world was a desert, nothing but dust, not a scrap of grass to be had. In their hunger, they began to eat the hide off our lodge poles, mouths dripping blood. I did not have the strength to drive them off, to send them away. All I could do was weep and beg them to stop.” Simon hesitates, then says, “I did not understand its meaning until Talks Different interpreted it for me. The grey horse was Addington, the one with the button eyes was you. She said my brothers were coming to take me back to England.” There is a long pause, Simon’s last sentence hangs in the air. Gaunt leans towards Simon eagerly. “You see, Charles, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I will remain here.” He nods at Talks Different and the boy.

Charles Gaunt drops his head in the palm of one hand. After a considerable interval, he asks in a hushed voice, “Where is the child’s father?”

The
bote
suddenly shifts on her robe; the copper bracelets clink angrily.

Simon answers, “I am his father.”

Gaunt keeps his eyes on the ground. “The boy is too old to be your child, Simon. He belongs to that woman.”

“To us both.”

I clear my throat. Gaunt looks up at me, hopeful I’m rallying to his banner. “I reckon what your brother means to say is the boy is adopted.”

“ ‘Suffer the little children to come on to me,’ ” says Simon. “The
botes
are paragons of charity. Six months ago both his parents died-of consumption. Now he is our child. His name is Red Calf.”

Gaunt sits picking his words over. I guess that he’s shucking some, taking up others. When he starts to talk, he does so with full deliberation, full care. “Simon, this is so much like you. I understand what you say, understand it is prompted by Christian idealism. Your large-heartedness does you credit. But your sense of duty, of responsibility, is misplaced.”

The
bote
leans against Simon, rubs her cheek on his shoulder like a cat. Dotingly, he touches her hair. Then the
bote
straightens up. She’s staked public claim to her man. It’s out in the open now, the gist of it, if not all the particulars. This much anyway, a declaration of love.

Gaunt’s taken it in, and it’s frozen him. When he finally finds his voice, it is so low, so faint he can hardly be heard above the crackle of the fire. “And what do you expect me to tell Father?”

“That I am lost, dead. He would have no argument with either description if the facts were known to him. But as you see, I am neither. I’m sorry, Charles.”

I reckon there’s a moment when a man knows everything is lost, his flesh and bones sense it before his mind does. That’s Charles Gaunt right now.

The
bote
gives him a final push. “You will not eat our lodge. You go now.”

I get to my feet, cross to Gaunt, hoist him to his feet. He doesn’t resist or fuss. He’s too shaken.

“Charles,” Simon calls after us, but I keep Gaunt on the move. Hand on his elbow, I direct him out of the Lodge of the Sun to faithful Potts waiting slouched in the night.