Language of the Bear

by Nathanael Green

  The slamming of his heart made his vision swim and he closed his eyes. He’d made a generous offering of tobacco and smoked fish to the jogah of the rock and the river before they’d begun their ascent. He had worried for the Englishman. But now, he wished he had prayed harder for himself.

  Wolf Tongue stared at the black rock so close that he could feel his breath blown back to him and ignored the freezing sweat that rolled down his back. He forced himself only to think of finding his next position.

  Slowly, he followed Pyke up the cliff. Sometimes he’d pull himself half a body’s length, then again, with easy handholds. Other times, he’d move inches, then search for another spot for what seemed like the entire night.

  Pause, search, pull. Push, pause, search.

  Finally, he saw a swish of movement as Pyke pulled himself over the ledge. Wolf Tongue had lost any sense of time in his minute accomplishments of finding new handholds.

  The edge was so close, so near. He was almost there. He reached for another grip and pulled without testing.

  A chunk of rock came loose in his hand and tumbled away. Both his right hand and leg fell into the air and he fought to keep them from flailing out away from the rock. He could feel the river pulling at him, calling him back down to it as he scrabbled at the rock with his fingers, trying to find another grip.

  His breath came in ragged gasps and he could feel his chest tightening. He looked up for Pyke, but the man had disappeared beyond the ledge only half a body length away.

  Wolf Tongue gritted his teeth and scraped and kicked at the rock. His fingers caught on a small lip for a heartbeat, but then slipped past and tore at his fingernails. He tried again but could get no purchase. His left hand, with only the tips of his fingers curled inside a rift in the rock, began to tremble.

  “Sssssst!” he hissed.

  No response, save the thunder of his own heartbeat and the laughter of the river.

  “Sssssssssst!” he hissed again, this time more loudly. He dare not call out, but he needed Pyke.

  Another moment of silence passed.

  Wolf Tongue cursed beneath his breath and slid his hand under his belly. Fighting to maintain his balance, he pulled his tomahawk free. He eyed the rock above him and stretched with it, hoping to hook its blade and pull himself up. The only result was a frantic scraping of metal against stone.

  Pyke’s face appeared over the ledge. At least Wolf Tongue hoped it was Pyke, for in the darkness, he only saw a silhouette. Then, he felt a tug on his tomahawk as if someone were pulling it from his grip.

  With a grunt, Wolf Tongue pulled his body higher. His right foot found another hold, then his left hand. And his left foot.

  With one final heave, Wolf Tongue pushed his torso over the ledge. He had never been so grateful for rock scraping at his belly as when he finally yanked his feet up behind him and rolled onto the ground beside Pyke.

  “Shh,” whispered Pyke.

  Wolf Tongue closed his eyes and sighed, trying to let his lungs rest. After a few more frantic heartbeats, he sat up and looked around. They had come up not fifteen strides from the tents, and well inside the clearing. Here, along the edge of the cliff, a few scrub brushes and sumac trees had forced their roots into the rock and he and Pyke sat in a tangle of branches. The fire had burned low and it seemed that all had gone away to their bedrolls. No wonder, thought Wolf Tongue. The wind was in a foul mood, the air cold and sharp. It would be a surprise if there weren’t snow before dawn.

  Pyke leaned in close. “We’ll take a moment to rest,” he whispered and Wolf Tongue was glad to hear him breathing heavily, too. “There, that’s his tent.” He nodded toward a large tent just beside the fire.

  Wolf Tongue nodded, drew in a long draft of cold air and blew it out through pursed lips. They sat, waiting, watching, breathing. The strain from climbing slowly washed away, but even as he sat still, Wolf Tongue’s heart continued to thrum.

  His ears perked up and he turned his head as he thought he heard something. A light movement or a crackling. He felt something cold and wet on his arm. In a matter of moments, the crackling grew louder as rain came down in thick, furious plops.

  Good, he thought. They won’t hear us at all.

  Eight – The Deed

  While they rested in a crouch to catch their breath, Pyke kept an eye out for any guards that might be patrolling the camp. If Azariah thought he was followed, it stood to reason the man would post sentries.

  Thankfully though, it seemed the cold night, the relentless wind, and the piercing rain had driven everyone inside their tents. If sentries stood post, they likely did not face the cliff, because only a fool or a madman would attempt that climb.

  Pyke had felt like a little of both during their ascent, halfway up questioning the wisdom of his plan. Had his desire to see the deed done and return to Jenkins Town—really, his desire for Damaris—overwhelmed his reason?

  No. He was proud and often angry, but he was certain it could be done no other way. Lying in wait along the road would leave them exposed for too long and would have proven too dangerous. And to assault a force ten times your own size was most certainly the act of a madman.

  Earlier in the day, Pyke had briefly considered returning to Jenkins Town to requisition more men. But secrecy was of the utmost importance to the Colonel. There was no way the old man would offer him more men because of the delicate nature of the mission, and at the asking, the Colonel would have only scolded him and possibly retracted his earlier promise regarding Damaris.

  No. The only way to do this was as they had done. Scale the cliff under cover of darkness, stalk their prey like beasts of the jungle, pounce quietly, and slip away like ghosts in the night.

  Wolf Tongue nudged his shoulder and pointed. Pyke’s eyes followed the line of the savage’s arm but in the darkness saw nothing. Wolf Tongue’s hand moved slowly, following the motion of something. Finally, in the flickering campfire, Pyke spotted an armed man. He tracked the man as his image vanished and reappeared between the tents. He moved slowly, the unhappy walk of a man allotted a bothersome duty on a cold night.

  Though Pyke estimated there were twenty men in total, the camp was not large. The armed sentry made his rounds in a few minutes, before disappearing back into the darkness. Pyke couldn’t tell if the man had gone into a tent or had gone back to scout the forest.

  “Do you see him now?”

  Wolf Tongue shook his head no. “He is the only one, though. I haven’t seen anyone else.”

  Pyke wondered at that. If Azariah believed he needed sentries standing post, why only have one?

  He shook the convoluted thought away. The answer was simple: Azariah was not military. The man was merely doing his best to mimic what little he’d learned from spending time around the Colonel.

  “What now?” Wolf Tongue asked in a whisper, his voice mingling with the sharp wind.

  Pyke signaled at Azariah’s tent. To their good fortune, it stood closest to the cliff and somewhat removed from the others: the great man’s way of making very clear the order of things in this delicate utopia of his. “We both go. You watch for the sentry, while I do the thing in the tent.”

  Pyke felt something heavy poke his chest. His hand was surprised to feel the cold steel of the savage’s strange weapon, the tomahawk.

  “This will kill with one blow, much better than a knife. It will open a man’s skull.”

  Pyke touched the weapon but hadn’t taken it yet. After sleeping on Wolf Tongue’s thoughts, Pyke had resigned himself to the fact he had to kill Azariah in his sleep. He was no soldier and did not live with honor. Azariah had killed one of his own men in cold blood, with a pistol to the head, and acted afterward like it meant nothing. He would not duel with Pyke. Nor would his men sit idly by while Pyke killed their leader. By following his code, Pyke would jeopardize not only himself, but also Wolf Tongue. Azariah’s men would not brook his assassination and turn the other cheek. They would want blood and with their overwhelming number
s, they would easily get it.

  If they were to escape the camp alive, it had to be done this way. But even with reason and right fully on his side, the thought of tomahawking Azariah was still utterly repellant.

  Pyke looked down at the weapon, and with a heavy hand and heavier heart, he took the tomahawk.

  “Thank you,” Pyke said, his own words surprising him. “If we get separated, meet me at the horse.”

  Wolf Tongue nodded.

  Carefully, they crawled over the crooked slope of the cliff top. Pyke imagined himself like one of his family’s cats, each movement slow, calculated, soundless, as if he were quietly closing on an unsuspecting sparrow. The thought of home and family warmed his heart and lightened his load.

  They took their time. Pyke was so fixated on the tent and what was to be done that he didn’t see the sentry cross in front of the campfire on the side nearest them. Thankfully, though, Wolf Tongue spotted the man and signaled for Pyke to hug the earth. From his angle, Pyke was only able to lay eyes on the sentry for the briefest of moments. Then, after waiting an eternity of minutes, Wolf Tongue nudged his leg and they resumed their slow, awkward crawl.

  The stony terrain gave way to rocky soil. For a moment, Pyke thought the rain seemed to relent, but then he realized it had turned to snow. Thick, wet flakes stung his bare neck.

  They reached the rear of the tent. Its opening faced the campfire. Pyke paused to catch his breath. He was tired from the climb and the crawl. He and Wolf Tongue met eyes but spoke no words.

  Wolf Tongue held out his hand and pointed two fingers to the ground, then he mimicked a man’s legs walking. He’d spotted the guard again.

  Pyke offered another prayer to the Lord. May Almighty God give me the strength I need and also forgive me for what I am about to do.

  He knew he was in the right. Even if he didn’t believe all the talk and silly rumors about Azariah, he’d seen with his own eyes that the man was a cold-blooded murderer. Under normal circumstances, he would have hauled the man before a magistrate. But as he was finding out, there was no such thing as normal circumstances in the Province. Every day brought new, unforeseen predicaments to the Crown. This was but another.

  He reminded himself why he was here. Damaris. If Azariah were allowed to continue with his foolishly romantic plans, Colonel Bennett would be forcibly retired. If her father were removed from his office, Damaris would suffer. It was that simple.

  Even if he brought Azariah to more conventional justice, the end result would have been the same. The man would have been hanged from the neck until dead, for the murder of an Englishman, not to mention the innumerable other charges Pyke was certain could be brought to bear.

  This way, no shame would fall on the Colonel’s house, and Damaris would be protected.

  He felt Wolf Tongue’s eyes on him. Meeting the man’s eyes, he tapped his own chest and then pointed at the tent. Wolf Tongue offered an encouraging nod, then with a flick of the wrist, pointed at his own eyes and at the camp beyond to signal that he would keep the watch.

  As he crawled around to the front of the tent, Pyke was grateful to have the Indian with him. The man had a sharp tongue, it was true, but he had proved a worthy and useful companion.

  Drawing alongside, Pyke made sure to keep close to the tent but not too close as to rub against its canvas. He dared not risk the slightest noise that might rouse Azariah from sleep.

  At this distance, the campfire loomed large and bright. He shielded his eyes from it, figuring he’d need his night vision in the enclosed darkness of the tent. Staying low to the ground, he scanned the other tents of the camp for signs of life. All seemed closed tight and fast against the wind.

  Now as he came even with the front of the tent, he searched for the sentry. The man had been by only a moment ago, so Pyke probably had time but he wanted to be certain.

  He saw no guard or man stirring. Aside from the plaintive noise of the wind, the camp was moodily silent. The now heavy snow fell with a hiss. His prey, Azariah Bennett, slept no more than five feet away.

  Recalling some more of his father’s advice, he pictured himself planting the tomahawk in Azariah’s skull. Father had always told him that, before doing something difficult, it was best to picture the act in your mind first. It made the doing in reality easier.

  He slid his way in front of the tent and squatted, still facing the fire. Without his eyes, he felt along the tent’s lining and his fingers gained purchase silently on the flap. He moved the flap an inch and peered inside.

  It was too dark to see. The tent did not fully face the fire, so its scarce light danced along the far side of the interior.

  Pyke let the flap drop. He stole another glance at the other tents and camp and didn’t see the guard.

  It was time.

  He gripped the tomahawk and with his other hand, very slowly, opened the flap just enough so he could slip inside.

  After he had pulled his trailing leg through, he let the flap drop again quickly and quietly, so there was only darkness in the tent. He remained in his crouch. To muffle his heavy breathing, he put a palm over his mouth.

  There was only space for one cot in this tent. A chair sat in the other far corner, next to the bed. Hanging along one side of the tent were clothes: a soldier’s uniform and several pairs of breeches.

  It would be done. Azariah slept no more than two yards away!

  Pyke heard the man’s soft, lazy snore as he crept forward. Azariah was cocooned in a pile of blankets, so Pyke could not see his face clearly to mark him, but Pyke knew this had to be the man. It was his tent, and the clothes hanging were his as well.

  With just one more step, Pyke would be in position to raise the tomahawk and smash the man’s skull. Then, Pyke would locate and snatch the man’s locket to have as proof of the deed for the Colonel.

  Pyke came halfway out of his crouch and stepped forward. In the darkness, though, he didn’t see the unlit lamp on the floor until he had knocked it over with his foot.

  The lamp crashed and clanged as it rolled. Pyke momentarily froze. Azariah stirred. Pyke brought the tomahawk up over his head.

  Then the world exploded.

  The blast of a musket deafened Pyke. Who the hell had fired a weapon? Too much in shock to worry if he was hit, he fought to get his bearings while his ears rang. Azariah, still in the tangle of the blankets, was scrambling to get up. The man broke into a scream, but Pyke couldn’t hear his words because his ears were useless. Pyke brought the tomahawk down in one broad arc and caught the man in the neck.

  Azariah slumped back down into the cot, clutching at his neck and a musket rolled out of the tangle of blankets onto Pyke’s toes. Azariah had fired. He’d been sleeping with a loaded weapon.

  “Pyke! If you’re alive, then hurry!” Wolf Tongue was at the flap of the tent. He sounded like he spoke through water. Pyke could hear other noises too and realized the camp was stirring. The blast had woken them.

  Quickly, Pyke stooped to search Azariah for his locket, but his eyes fell on the man’s face and his heart skipped a beat.

  It was not Azariah Bennett.

  The man’s face was gray. His mouth moved slowly as he grasped at the deluge pouring from his throat. The eyes, not Azariah’s brown, but a blue-gray, blinked slowly as they stared up at him.

  “Owahe!” From behind, Wolf Tongue grabbed Pyke’s arm and hauled him backward. He couldn’t focus his attention, as if his mind were separated from his body. Then he heard another musket fire, and he turned to face the camp.

  The camp was alive. Many scurried in confusion out of their tents, but some had figured out what was happening. In the chaos, Pyke caught a glimpse of Azariah beyond the campfire, his face lit up terribly from below like some hellish demon. Despite the frenzy, he appeared eerily calm, quickly marshaling his men and giving orders. He stood a head taller than those around him, and his eyes glinted menacingly.

  Like insects, his men made to swarm.

  Finally, Pyke’s sen
ses returned. He drew his pistol and took his best quick aim at Azariah and fired. He didn’t have time to track the ball’s ultimate destination. More shots were fired, as he and Wolf Tongue scrambled instinctively away from Azariah’s men.

  Back toward the cliff.

  Pyke fumbled to reload his pistol but realized it was no use. He and Wolf Tongue would never overcome twenty men. They had to flee.

  The two men shared a quick look.

  “Only one way out!” Pyke shouted over the din.

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” Wolf Tongue replied.

  Azariah’s men advanced more courageously now that both men were in retreat and showed no signs of reloading. Pyke heard the whoop of Indian ululation and the mad battle cries of white men. In the darkness, it was almost impossible to tell one from another. To Pyke, it was just one angry horde closing on them.

  They raced to the cliff and paused at the edge.

  The river churned below, a ribbon of shimmering black in the moonlight. Pyke could not tell how far a drop it was, and he had no way of knowing how deep the frigid water was. His missing finger ached from the anticipated cold.

  “If the fall doesn’t kill us, the cold will,” Wolf Tongue said, with an ironic smile. “I hope you at least managed to kill the bastard.”

  Pyke didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. “Jump and we’ll get you back to your woman with the fine arse.”

  Wolf Tongue lunged forward and disappeared.

  Then Pyke hurled himself.

  He plummeted through the darkness, keeping his eyes on the black water rushing to meet his feet. The fall took forever and was over too quickly. The punch of the water sent shivers of pain up his legs. Pyke feared he’d broken them.

  He went deep into the water, every moment expecting to crash into the riverbed. But his feet didn’t find the ground, so he paddled and kicked furiously to find the surface. His lungs instinctively gasped for breath and every muscle in his body tightened. Pain exploded everywhere as the cold seeped through his clothes and into his bones. He thought he would die from the shock of it and almost wished he did.