Slewfoot

by Brom

  He came out on the far side of the market where the Pequot were allotted a few spots to sell their wares and shellfish. There were about a dozen blankets spread out on the grass, displaying various items. Women stood or sat around each blanket, as it was the women who handled sales and most money matters amongst the tribes. The few men who had tagged along lounged about behind them, smoking pipes in the shade of the oaks.

  Wallace spotted the person he was looking for—a short Pequot man dressed in English clothes, a vest, knee-length pants, and a tall felt hat, all in a stately forest green. With his short-cropped hair, the man stood out in sharp contrast to the other Pequot, who wore the traditional garb of their clans, their hair long and braided, decorated with beads and feathers.

  The man went by the name Jesus Thunderbird, but that wasn’t his real name. He’d told Wallace the Pequot called him by many names and not a one of them was very nice, so he’d decided to give himself a proper name, and since a name wields great power, he chose the most powerful name he could think of; thus—Jesus Thunderbird.

  Jesus Thunderbird noticed Wallace approaching, pulled his corn pipe from his lips, and gave him a broad smile, exposing the gap between his two front teeth. “Big Boots.”

  Wallace grimaced. Jesus had a fondness for giving people whatever name suited him, sometimes three or four different ones in any given conversation, but usually sticking to the ones found to be the most irritating.

  “Please, it’s Wallace. Just Wallace.”

  “What can I do for Big Boots today?” Jesus said, and winked, producing a few smirks from the stone-faced men around him.

  Most of the Pequot knew a smattering of English, but along with his affinity for names, Jesus also loved language. In addition to his native Algonquian, he could speak French, a bit of Spanish, and English—all manner of English: the man could mimic most any dialect, be it Irish, Welsh, Scottish, or even the hoity inflections of the nobility. On one occasion, when General Sir Jonathan Ashley came marching through town with his guards, Jesus pulled off such a pitch-perfect impersonation of the man that the general’s own guards thought he’d ordered them to about-face, leaving General Ashley marching down the street alone. The stunt had gone over so well with the townsfolk that they’d actually invited Jesus into the Black Toad and bought him a few pints.

  “I’ve come to make you an offer,” Wallace said. “A profitable venture for all of us.”

  Jesus eyed him suspiciously.

  “It is a simple thing, really.”

  Jesus laughed. “Why do I not believe that?”

  “A woman owes me a great debt but refuses to pay it. So I need a bit of help in retrieving what is rightfully mine.”

  Jesus slid his corn pipe over to the corner of his mouth and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Why do you not go to the sheriff?”

  Wallace sighed. “It’s complicated.”

  Jesus shook his head. “Hmm, first it’s a simple thing, now it’s complicated. Which is it, Big Boots?”

  Wallace gave himself a moment before replying, trying to maintain his composure. “It’s both. The woman … she’s a widow, living alone. She lives far outside of town, all but an exile. The point I am trying to make is there is not anyone looking out for her. Like I said, she’s on her own. So getting what’s mine should be simple.”

  “And what is yours?”

  “Corn. A lot of corn. All I am looking for is a few men to help me haul it off. What I am proposing is that we simply go into her barn one night, load up the corn, my corn, and cart it off. You may keep all you can haul away and I’ll keep the rest.”

  Jesus glanced at the other Pequot men; none of them appeared interested.

  “I am not stealing,” Wallace added, speaking to all of them. “You understand? I am simply reclaiming what is rightfully mine.”

  “I have a feeling this woman will not appreciate us taking your corn from her barn. Does this woman have a musket by chance?”

  “Mayhap, but I certainly do. And I intend to bring it along.”

  “Sounds like you are playing a dangerous game, Big Boots.”

  “I am done playing games,” Wallace growled, unable to keep the venom from his voice. “The woman is trying to ruin me.”

  “I see,” Jesus said, and turned to the other men, talking rapidly in Algonquian. Wallace knew a few words and phrases, but the stone looks and headshaking were enough to see that the other men wanted nothing to do with his venture. All but two young men headed away toward the docks.

  Jesus faced Wallace. “They say your foray could lead to big trouble with the English.”

  “And you?”

  “And me,” Jesus sighed. “See that woman over there?” He gestured to a large Pequot woman standing over one of the blankets. “The one scowling at me. Every day she tells me that I am lazy, that I am a terrible hunter, that I am a terrible provider, that I am naught but a big disappointment. She likes to warn me that if I do not start making a better effort, she will kick me out into the cold come winter. I have very thin blood, Big Boots. I do not want to sleep out in the snow. Mayhap if I bring home a couple bushels of corn, I will not have to.”

  “And these two?” Wallace nodded to the two young men. “Will they help?”

  “This is Nootau and his brother Chogan. They are very brave, but not very smart. They have agreed to come with us.”

  “Good,” Wallace said, feeling relieved, feeling as though his life might not be ruined after all. “I checked on the woman just yesterday. She is still gathering the corn. But most of it has already been harvested and is waiting in the barn. I’d like us to meet up at Miller Bridge tomorrow, just after dark. Can you do that?”

  Jesus nodded. “We will meet you there.”

  * * *

  Abitha dumped another full sack of corn into the cart hitched behind her mule.

  “I think that’s enough for today, Sid.”

  There were several rows left to harvest and still plenty of light left in the day, but there was no hurry now; October was still a week away, no need to work herself to death. She would have more than enough to pay Wallace what was owed in full.

  Abitha leaned against the cart, letting that sink in—finding it all but impossible to believe. She watched the colorful fall leaves drifting along in the light breeze, realized she was smiling, and sucked in a deep lungful of the unseasonably warm air, enjoying how good it felt to breathe without feeling she was about to drown from all the worry. But she felt something more; the pulse, the magic in her chest, it was as though Samson had planted a seed there and it was growing, blossoming. She could feel her connection to the earth getting stronger, could feel the hum of it even now coming up through the ground, through her bare feet, making her feel as one with the land. She closed her eyes, drank it in, let it take her.

  Sid brayed, bringing her back. She rubbed the mule and smiled. “I know, it’s getting near your suppertime.” She led the mule up to the barn. Booka met them halfway, leaping up onto the cart and riding into the barn with them.

  Abitha unloaded the ears into the corncrib, unhitched the mule, then strolled out into the yard.

  She scanned the edge of the forest for Samson’s familiar shape. She’d not seen him all day. More and more he was disappearing into the forest, sometimes for days at a time. It dawned on her that she was actually looking for him, and she wondered when she’d gone from fearing him to seeking out his company. She tried to tell herself she was just lonely, but knew it to be more.

  She wandered around to the bee boxes. She’d often found Samson there, the bees swarming about him as though delighted by his presence. He said he found their song calming and would sit there for hours pondering his past, his future, who he was, what he was. But Abitha felt he’d been doing too much ruminating of late, that he seemed to be growing ever more despondent.

  Something must be done, she thought, and headed inside. She gathered up a handful of brittle and wandered down to the edge of the forest.

  She d
idn’t see Samson, but sensed him, sensed his discontentment.

  She entered the woods, pushing through the limbs and brambles until she spotted the petrified remnants of the great tree and the small sapling with red leaves. She saw the cave and it was as though a cold shadow fell across her heart. She couldn’t help but think of it as Edward’s grave, his true grave, of his body lying all alone at the bottom of that dreadful pit. “Edward,” she whispered, trying to recall his face, but it was the other that kept coming to her, the Edward with only shadows for eyes.

  Abitha shuddered and pressed on, skirting around the blackened pile of stones. She spotted Samson sitting on the ground, behind one of the standing stones, his arms draped around his legs.

  “Samson,” she called.

  He didn’t answer. His head was down, his eyes closed. His face appeared pained.

  “Oh, but if you do not make for a woeful sight. What are you doing here all alone and with such a long face?”

  He continued to ignore her.

  She stepped up to him, set her hands on her hips. “Samson. I know you hear me. Now, enough of this. You have done wonders. You are capable of so much more. I know this, I feel it. Now, up with you. There is joy to be found. But not if you sit there moping your days away.”

  He sighed, opened his silver eyes.

  “I have something that will cheer you up.” She pulled out the brittle, held it out for him.

  He looked at the brittle, then her. “I am sorry, Abitha, but I am in no mood for brittle this day.”

  “What? Not in the mood for brittle? Lord be, Samson, but you are in a sad state.”

  He frowned and grunted.

  “Oh, Samson, I am sorry you are so tormented. I truly am. I wish I could help you find your answers.”

  “As do I.”

  “My mother always said friends and laughter can cure any ill.” Abitha sat down beside him, touched his arm. “We are friends, Samson, you and me. Are we not?”

  His eyes brightened ever so slightly. He nodded. “Yes. That is one thing I do know. We are friends.”

  She grinned warmly at him. “Good, we are halfway there then. We just need some laughter. Know you any saucy riddles or rhymes, Samson?”

  Samson frowned. “I know no riddles or rhymes.”

  “Well I do, plenty. And I learned a few new ones from the deckhands on the voyage over. I was right fond of this one.”

  “There were a Scotsman named McFee

  Who got stung on his nuggets by a bee

  He made tons of money

  By producing lots of honey

  Every time he went for a pee.”

  Abitha gave him a coy smile.

  Samson stared at her. “I do not understand this.”

  “All right, then here be another.”

  “There were a blind lass from Glasgow

  Who were sent out a milking the cow

  She milked the farmhand instead

  Until his cock turned bright red

  And now he be too sore to plow.”

  Abitha pressed her hand against her mouth, suppressing a giggle.

  Samson stared at her perplexed.

  “Fine, mayhap such genteel poetry is beyond you. Mayhap it is a song you need, a bit of singing to cheer you up. Here’s a little ditty that never fails to make me snicker.” Abitha cleared her throat, began to hum, found the melody, and then sang.

  “On the fourteenth of May, at the dawn of the day

  With me gun on me shoulder to the woods I did stray

  In search of some game, if the weather prove fair

  To see can I get a shot at the bonny black hare.

  I met a young girl there with her face as a rose

  And her skin were as fair as the lily that grows

  I says, My fair maid, why ramble you so

  Can you tell me where the bonny black hare do go.

  The answer she gave me, O, the answer were no

  But under me apron they say it do go

  And if you’ll not deceive me, I vow and declare

  We’ll both go together to hunt the bonny black hare.

  I laid this girl down with her face to the sky

  I took out me ramrod, me bullets likewise

  Saying, Wrap your legs round me, dig in with your heels

  For the closer we get, O, the better it feels.”

  Abitha snorted.

  “The birds, they were singing in the bushes and trees

  And the song that they sang was, She’s easy to please

  I felt her heart quiver and I knew what I’d done

  Says I, Have you had enough of me old sporting gun.”

  Abitha let out a loud laugh and glanced at Samson; he looked puzzled but intrigued.

  “The answer she gave me, O, the answer were nay

  It’s not often young sportsmen like you come this way

  And if your powder is good and your bullets are fair

  Why don’t you keep firing at the bonny black hare.”

  Abitha was having a hard time finishing the song between snorts of laughter. Samson too was smiling, but she saw it was at her, not the song.

  “Oh, me powder is wet and me bullets all spent

  And me gun I can’t fire, for it’s choked at the vent

  But I’ll be back in the morning, and if you are still here

  We’ll both go together to hunt the bonny black hare.”

  Abitha laughed loud and hard, realized it was more than this bawdy song, it was being able to let her hair down, to be her vulgar, sassy self in front of someone again, even if that someone might be the Devil himself.

  “Abitha, please, do not stop. I would hear more.”

  “But I know no more verses.”

  “The words … they do not matter. It is your sweet voice.”

  She gave him a bashful smile. “You like my voice?”

  “I do. It pleases me more than you could know.”

  Abitha continued, lightly humming and singing, and at some point, she realized other voices had joined in, the birds, the frogs, crickets, a symphony of calls. She laughed, the song touching her heart, making her feel so light and free, as though she could just run off into the woods and join all the animals living there.

  Samson’s smile grew; his silver eyes sparkled.

  Abitha stood, began to slowly swirl and sway with the song.

  Another voice joined. It came up through the ground, from deep in the earth, so very faint. Abitha felt it more than she heard it. The serpent, she thought, and glanced at Samson. But he seemed not to notice; his eyes were closed, a peaceful smile on his face.

  The breeze kicked up and the red leaves on the sapling flittered. Her dream came to mind, that of the serpent offering her the apple, and she shuddered.

  I care not, she thought, pushing the fear from her mind. I am alive, the air is warm, there is a bounty in my field. It is time to find whatever joy I can in this often far too cruel world.

  She drank in the sweet air, Samson’s smile, and continued to sway to the song.

  * * *

  Jesus, Nootau, and Chogan leaned against two pull carts, waiting for Wallace in the dark beneath a large willow. The night sky was clear and the moon almost full, giving them just enough light to navigate without their lanterns. A good night for a bit of tomfoolery, Jesus thought. And if there is indeed enough corn to fill both of these carts, it will be a very, very good night.

  Clomping hooves approached and a moment later two men appeared on horseback. For a second Jesus didn’t recognized Wallace and his son, then realized they were in disguise. Both wore sackcloth tied off at the waist with a rope belt, their arms and legs bare and what appeared to be black horsehair wigs beneath straw hats.

  “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

  “What do we look like?”

  “Ugly women,” Jesus said with a snort.

  “No, we’re Indians.”

  The Pequot shared a sour glance with one another.

  Wallace
and his son dismounted and tied their horses beneath the willow, then removed their shoes, leaving them by the tree. Wallace unhooked a lantern from his saddle and the two of them prissy-toed it over to the carts—two men obviously unaccustomed to going barefoot.

  “So you’re Pequot now?”

  “We cannot afford to be recognized.”

  “What kind of game is this?”

  “No game. The woman knows us, that’s all. So we need disguise ourselves.”

  Wallace held up his lantern to get a good look at the carts. One was a rickety two-man cart that the brothers would be pulling, and the other, the smaller one, a single-man cart that Jesus would be pulling. Jesus had borrowed them from his uncle and so long as he returned them before his uncle noticed, all should be good.

  Wallace seemed concerned.

  “What is the matter?”

  “I just hope they can carry enough corn, that’s all.”

  “Where is your wagon?”

  “Decided it would be too obvious if I were to show up at the market with a cart of corn same time as some went missing. So, it is all yours.”

  This made no sense to Jesus. “But I thought that—”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Now it is complicated again.”

  “There’s just a lot more to it. It’s about the farm for me, not the corn. Look, you will get your corn and I will get back my farm. That is all you need to know.”

  Jesus noted the desperation in Wallace’s eyes. A voice in his head, one that sounded a lot like his wife, warned him yet again that this wasn’t a good idea. Wallace is not the only one who is desperate, he thought. And desperate men take desperate chances, and that is all there is to this. “And you are sure there is corn?”

  “Yes. There is plenty.”

  Jesus noticed the flintlock pistol in Wallace’s belt. “We cannot afford any trouble,” Jesus said. “I am already in enough trouble with the tribe, my wife, and the sheriff too.”