“Storm-of-Villages,” said Wolf Tongue.
Andrew glanced back, his eyes dark and dangerous. “You know him?”
Wolf Tongue frowned. “I hear much about him.”
“There’s much to tell.” Andrew’s face tightened and the two sat in silence as the old man raked his gaze once over Wolf Tongue. His rheumy eyes were set in a round, soft face, but now they’d gone darker, sharper. They spoke of a power beyond his physical body. In that look Wolf Tongue felt a coldness, as if the bear of the North Wind, Jahocha, stared out from the man’s soul.
Wolf Tongue swallowed and tried not to fidget. How could he face Kicks-the-Oneida in combat unafraid and yet squirm under the stare of one old man?
The sun brightened and the air in Wolf Tongue’s nose felt warmer as Andrew broke the stare and plucked the lenapana from Wolf Tongue’s hands. He broke it in half and passed some back.
“Why are you here, Minqua?” asked Andrew. He stared at Wolf Tongue from under his brows.
Though Wolf Tongue spoke Unami only marginally well, it was not lost on him that their word for the Susquehannock, Minqua, meant treacherous. He, too, crumbled some of the bread into his mouth to take a moment, though he had no hunger for it. Near the corpses, a woman began to wail and her cries mingled with the man’s sung prayers as they rose to the strange Lenape spirits.
He thought of Pyke hiding in the woods and of his pleas of secrecy. Wolf Tongue didn’t care how the quhanstrono would bicker if others learned of their mission. Still, Pyke had seemed adamant that he hold the secret. And Wolf Tongue knew that some among the local villages had taken up with Azariah.
“I come as a friend,” he said finally, and as he said it, he again wondered that this frail old man would make his belly so restless.
“A friend to whom?”
Wolf Tongue licked his lips with a long breath. He tried a smile. “I try to be a friend to wise old men. They help keep me out of trouble.”
The tattoos on Andrew’s cheek twitched and he made a phlegmy sound that may have been a laugh or a snort of contempt.
“Then tell an old man, Minqua. Why, truly, are you here?”
Just as the words entered the air, a sudden noise drew both their attentions. Men began to shout and whoop as if preparing for war. Wolf Tongue’s hand fell to his tomahawk and he looked up.
Coming toward them were four young men, each wearing beaded headbands and carrying their weapons. Their movements were rushed and twitchy, as if coming from a fight.
Andrew was on his feet, his face a scowl. “What did you find?”
One of the men glanced sideways at Wolf Tongue and pursed his lips in silent concern before turning back to Andrew. “Someone hiding in the forest. English. We would have killed him, but …”
He paused and let his look linger on Andrew. The old man nodded.
“Bring him out.”
The four men turned and ran back the way they’d come. Andrew remained standing and stared after them. Then, without turning his head, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Wolf Tongue.
A half-dozen Lenape carrying clubs and knives came around a twist in the road. They shoved at someone in their midst, pushing along a man who dressed like an Englishman.
Wolf Tongue’s breath stopped and wrapped around his heart when he recognized Hugh Pyke. The soldier had been stripped of his weapons and jacket and now shuffled forward with his hands bound before him. His face was bloodied, but he kept his lips tight and attempted to walk with his shoulders back while the six Lenape shoved and shouted at him. Just outside the crowd came another European dressed in a long jacket and with a wiry gray beard. The odd man chased alongside at a safe distance like a dog after a horse, barking something that might have been English.
As his chest loosened after the initial shock, Wolf Tongue stifled a curse. Could the English do nothing right? All he needed to do was stay quiet and hidden.
Andrew speared Wolf Tongue with his gaze again, but only for a moment before he said, “Wait here,” and stepped off to meet the crowd closer to the center of the village by the rectangular council house.
Wolf Tongue watched the man go with a cold feeling in his guts. From where he sat, he could just make out the men’s words.
“We found this alëm hiding in the woods,” snarled one of the men in Unami. He had painted his face with smears of black and white. Brass earrings dangled from underneath a beaded headband and he carried a ball-head war club in one hand. He stood to Pyke’s left and the stance of his body hid the Englishman from Wolf Tongue’s view.
The other European came forward with hands outspread. In English, he said, “Andrew, please. Christ teaches us to love forgiveness. When we are struck, it is good to give other cheek.”
Andrew kept his hard eyes on Pyke. He answered in English: “When your sons are murdered, is it good to give more sons?”
Wolf Tongue held his breath as he tried to take in the situation. The Susquehannock had found peace with the Lenape and the English, even though these people had no love for their European allies. If they killed Pyke and the Colonel learned of it, there could be more strife among them all, and the Susquehannock would be drawn into it on one side or the other.
Wolf Tongue looked to Andrew for some sign of how he might proceed. Obviously, the old man held little more respect for the Minqua than he did for the English, and Wolf Tongue might condemn both Pyke and himself if he intervened.
Pyke spoke then, and despite being bloodied, his voice was strong, but courteous as always. “I do not know why you accosted me so, but I swear I am no murderer.”
The man with the club whirled with an open-handed slap across Pyke’s mouth. Pyke’s head snapped to one side, though he did not stumble or give. The man leaned in so that his face was only a hand’s width from Pyke and snarled, “You English. Storm-of-Villages English. I find you like spider. Hide and wait with poison.”
The movement shifted the man from Pyke’s view and he finally recognized Wolf Tongue. In that moment, the Englishman’s eyes widened and Wolf Tongue saw the anger and accusation in the look.
“Stop!” yelled Wolf Tongue in Unami. He did not feel that his voice carried the power that Andrew’s did, though it held strong enough to make the group look at him in surprise. Andrew’s already-tense face drew into a scowling rictus as he looked at him.
Still in his own tongue, Andrew forced words past a trembling jaw. “You, Minqua, come here and claim to be our friend. You share in the funeral feast. And now you want to spare this weak English? Are you with him? Another murderer to feed to the vultures?”
Wolf Tongue rose slowly, careful to hold his musket in only one hand by the barrel. He kept his eyes on Andrew and wished he spoke better Unami. It was better to speak the bear’s own tongue when you wanted him not to eat you.
“I am with him. We are not with Storm-of-Villages.”
The old Lenape folded his hands before him and stared back at Pyke. “Why are you here?”
The soldier took an audible breath before answering. “I travel with the full authority of Colonel Bennett and the Province. I am an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Army. My business is my own, though I swear to you as a gentleman that I mean your people no harm.”
Andrew shook his head slightly and pursed his lips, and in that movement, Wolf Tongue saw more poignant anger and grief than he had ever seen in one person before. Andrew swallowed hard before he spoke. His voice was low, and though it was quiet, like a knife so sharp that the slightest touch would cut. “No, English. I remember when your father William came to us as friends. And we were. But now his sons make false promises and take what is not theirs. You say you are a friend. So did Storm-of-Villages when he met with my son. When he refused him, that English murdered him.”
Andrew’s face grew tenser as he breathed for a moment. Wolf Tongue noticed that even the praying holy man and the crying woman had stopped. The only sound was the crackle of a fire and the creaking of bare branches in the wind.
<
br /> The old man nodded toward the woods to his left. “Take him out there. I do not want his blood spoiling the souls of our dead.” Andrew turned to Wolf Tongue. “And you, Minqua—”
His words were cut short as the other white leapt forward again to grasp the arm of the man holding Pyke captive. “Please,” he cried. “You men have been baptized in Christ! Do not let anger cause this sin!”
The man who held Pyke captive hesitated and turned questioning eyes on Andrew. The old man shook his head again toward the edge of the village. The man with the club turned toward Wolf Tongue with anger in his face, when at that moment, the man in the long robes leapt forward and grabbed his arm with both hands.
“Please,” he whispered. “One murder does not wash out another.”
Andrew roared then, his voice crackling like thunder. “It will satisfy our dead and send his soul to the hell it deserves!”
There was a sudden tussle among the group. Shoulders jostled, fists swung. The bearded man fell to the ground. A Lenape cried in pain as his legs crumpled and he crashed to the dirt. Pyke spun, grabbing at another of the Lenape, who then tumbled over the bearded man.
Now, Pyke brandished a skinning knife he’d taken from the Lenape’s belt at arm’s length, though his wrists were still bound. “I swear to you, sir. I am no murderer. But I will defend my life if you force me to.”
Andrew did not answer, but narrowed his eyes. The man who’d guarded Pyke took another step toward Wolf Tongue. His war club dangled at the end of his arm, the feathers tied to it shaking as if his arm itched for movement.
Wolf Tongue raised his voice as he called in English, hoping he could better say what he needed. “This man will not say it because he is oath-bound to secrecy. But I will tell you that I hunt Storm-of-Villages. We will kill him.”
“You lie, Minqua,” hissed the man with the club.
Pyke watched him with wide eyes. Wolf Tongue knew the soldier desired secrecy, but death seemed too secret.
“No,” he said as he turned back to Andrew. “We came from Millers Town, where they said that Storm-of-Villages was here with you. I did not believe that the Lenape would be blinded by his false visions, but we came here in search of him.”
“Have the Minqua taught the English to be so treacherous that they hunt their own now?” asked Andrew.
Wolf Tongue shook his head. “Storm-of-Villages was born among the English, but his blood is sour. He lies and murders, and his own people would want him gone so that none might say they are like him.”
Wolf Tongue gestured toward where a crowd of silent mourners peered over the four dead men. “Storm-of-Villages is a madman. If you will let us go, I will see that he dies.”
“No,” said Andrew. “He came to us with just four other people. Cayuga and another white as big as the Minqua. He met my son in the forest because I did not want him in the village. He spoke of peace and friendship. Of uniting all the peoples and living, English, French, Dutch, Lenape, Iroquois, all together in one house.
“But then he asked for our warriors and our women to join him. My son saw him for the evil he is, and refused. Storm-of-Villages earned his name, and I am poorer for it. Now we will find him and take his blood for that that he stole.”
Pyke spoke then and Wolf Tongue gritted his teeth, fearful of what the quhanstrono might say. “Sir, I am new to these lands. But I have heard that the English and the … Lenape have been friends in the past and I hope that it would continue as such. While you are sorely grieved, this is an internal matter of the English and I am acting with full authority, and I ask that you leave any retribution to the King’s law.”
“Please, Andrew. Remember the teachings of our Lord,” the bearded man piped up suddenly, though he still lay on the ground.
Andrew studied Pyke for a long moment. His hands were tightened to bony white as they clutched at the blanket slung across his shoulders.
“No,” he said simply as he forced his attention on the bearded man. “Your people and your god have brought us nothing but pain and death. I do not believe this English or the Minqua. Take them away so their lies do not taint the loose souls of our dead.”
The man with the club stepped toward Wolf Tongue while others near Pyke readied their weapons. There were only two men coming toward him while three others surrounded Pyke. He, himself, could likely escape, even if Pyke were killed. Wolf Tongue felt the weight of the musket in his hand, and considered reaching for his tomahawk or his knife. It would be so easy to lay low this one Lenape and disappear back into the forest.
Wolf Tongue dropped his musket and yanked his knife from its sheath. He held it aloft and screamed, “Wait!” When Andrew’s head snapped to look at him again, Wolf Tongue changed again to Unami when he spoke.
“I swear I say truth. I swear for English. I swear to the Minqua’s Hahgwehdiyu and the odhow who guard the dead. And to your powers and all your manitou. I swear we say true. I swear we will kill Storm-of-Villages. If I lie, may my soul be crippled when I die.”
Andrew held up one hand to stall those around him. Pyke glanced once at Wolf Tongue with questions in his eyes before turning again with tense shoulders to watch those around him.
“You swear with blood, on your soul, that your oath be carried in the smoke?” asked Andrew.
“Yes.”
Andrew spun with more force and speed than Wolf Tongue could have guessed. He strode to where the holy man still knelt by the fire, a bundle of tobacco laid out beside him. He glanced over his shoulder and motioned for the Susquehannock to approach. “Come. Say your oath where your prayers may reach the gods.”
Six – Better Than Men
Pyke’s jaw ached as he opened his mouth to allow Comenius to examine his teeth.
“You are lucky,” Comenius said. “I don’t think you’ll lose any. But it is early to tell.”
Relieved, Pyke let out a deep breath. He still had all his teeth, which was remarkable for a man his age. Gingerly, he felt his jaw and worked his mouth open and shut. “I don’t know about lucky.”
“You’re right. Not luck. Your friend helped you.” Comenius nodded at Wolf Tongue, who was busy talking to one of the more friendly Lenape.
“The man is not my—” Pyke left off. Harsh words were uncalled for. “You are right. He did aid me.”
A Lenape woman approached Pyke, offering him a jug and a smile.
“Please, drink,” Comenius said. “She is showing her good will. Thank you, Obedience.”
Pyke realized the woman was scarcely more than a girl. She giggled nervously when he took the jug then quickly left. He put the jug to his lips and drank. Expecting alcohol, he was surprised to find only Adam’s ale. He spit out the water.
“It’s clean, you need not worry,” Comenius told him.
Pyke brought the jug back to his lips and drank. The water tasted smoky. “They are all Christians?” Pyke asked while offering the jug to Comenius.
Comenius shook his head grimly. “Not all. And those that are? Many are still of two souls. Andrew came to the Light of God, but you can see the old ways dominate him yet.” Comenius drank from the jug greedily and then poured some of the water over his head.
“Men will be men,” Pyke said, surprised to find himself using one of his father’s oft-repeated lines.
“We can be better than men, though,” Comenius said.
Pyke was beginning to see him in a different light. He was a Moravian, but he was a good man, trying to do God’s work at great personal risk in this bloody wilderness.
“What can you tell me of Azariah Bennett?” Pyke asked.
“Nothing, if your intention is to murder him.”
“My intention is to bring him to justice,” Pyke said, not feeling good about the half-truth.
Comenius’s eyes bore into him. Lying had never come easily. He liked to think that made him a good man.
Finally, Comenius’s judging eyes softened and he spoke. “I do not know where he came from or where he goes. He is ver
y tight-lipped, you would say. He had only a few men with him, but he spoke of many more. Referred to them as his army.”
“What manner of man was he?”
“A murderer,” Comenius blurted out angrily before giving it some thought. “Persuasive, haughty, and very big. As big as your friend.”
The last time he’d seen Azariah, Pyke had been waiting to see the Colonel when the other had brushed by him on his way somewhere, his fumbling servant in tow. He recalled being surprised at how much authority the man possessed. The Colonel’s servants had all scurried out of his way as he’d barged through the foyer.
Wolf Tongue signaled Pyke from across the way. Their strange ritual had been completed, and hopefully the savage had culled some useful information from the Lenape. They could finally leave. Pyke relaxed a bit. He’d been waiting for Andrew and the man with the club to return, having changed their minds about not killing him.
Pyke gathered his things and shook hands with Comenius. “Thank you for your help. It is always nice to find an ally in a man of the cloth.”
Comenius gave him a cockeyed smile. “I am a man but not of the cloth. But I hope that is good enough.”
Pyke smiled. “It certainly is. Godspeed.”
“Godspeed, Lieutenant. You will need it if you are on Azariah’s trail.”
***
The two men climbed the steep hill and retrieved Pyke’s horse without a word. The savage had wrapped a bandage around his hand where he’d cut it to take his blood oath. Pyke looked back at the village once and said, “Will they honor their word?”
Wolf Tongue shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough.”
“Did your man down there have any useful information?”
Wolf Tongue shook his head no. “Only rumors and speculation about where Storm-of-Villages flees. I know where I would go, but I’m no Englishman.”
Pyke almost reminded Wolf Tongue that he was half an Englishman but thought better of it. “If I were Azariah, I would ride for the frontier, positioning myself nearer the French.”
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