Language of the Bear

by Nathanael Green

  Wolf Tongue looked at his own hands. Ten long fingers, creased and calloused, extended beyond the tattoos on his forearms. They were both still whole, if sore and tired. And they were that way because Pyke had carried him to this cave and warmed him with fire and forced warm water into his belly. If it weren’t for Pyke, Wolf Tongue’s soul would have flown from his body, lamed by his unfulfilled oath and doomed to never reach his ancestors.

  “It is nearly noon,” said Pyke as he looked into the daylight again. “Azariah has had most of the day to search, and I guess he should be farther from here by now. If we move, we can be far away before sundown.”

  Wolf Tongue nodded and struggled again to his feet. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to lie by the fire in his family’s longhouse and sleep until the changing of the moon. Despite that, he stretched, testing his limbs, and followed Pyke out onto the banks of the river.

  Gohem had come furiously the night before, but now only a hand’s width of white lay on the ground, while thin layers stretched along the tops of branches. A breeze lifted from somewhere and a birch tree showered snow into the air. The reflected sunlight was a spear in Wolf Tongue’s eyes and he winced at the pain.

  “Where is this camp?” asked Pyke.

  “South. We follow the river until it bends to the east, then over a hilltop to another creek. It’s on the banks there. Maybe a half a day’s walk if we move slowly.”

  As they set out, Wolf Tongue again drifted into his own thoughts. The miles passed and the sun crawled across the sky. The storm the previous night had been late in the season, a last gasp of Gohem before spring came in full and now the sun shone warm on his scalp. He was grateful for the weather and for the wet, easy snow that muffled their footfalls.

  The river turned away from them and after a few strides, they stood at the base of another steep slope. He paused and again searched the area for signs of movement. Just that slight pause renewed the tiredness he felt. Each step ached and he had told himself he moved slowly to continue to watch for threats and to maintain their stealth. He did not want to be warmed up by the fire only so Storm-of-Villages could watch his blood steam in the snow.

  Perhaps it was not all fruitless. Wolf Tongue had fought and killed the scalpers, had scaled a cliff, killed one of his enemies, and survived the river. His soul was still here and he might yet fulfill his oath. And he owed thanks to Pyke for that. The soldier had saved him once before when they were attacked, but this effort weighed heavily in Wolf Tongue’s breast.

  “Hugh Pyke,” he said over his shoulder. The soldier looked up. “I owe you my life.”

  Pyke looked for a moment. “I have my penance to do.” Then he shook his head. “It was I who insisted we follow through with that fool’s plan. If it weren’t for me, we never would have gone into the river at all.”

  It was then that Wolf Tongue understood the man’s melancholy in the cave. It wasn’t just that Storm-of-Villages had escaped or that he’d failed his mission. He felt guilt and worry, and not just for Wolf Tongue. Perhaps he feared the same retribution on the ones he loved, too.

  “Still,” said Wolf Tongue as he began to climb the hill. “We will have a tale to tell our sons.”

  “Do you have sons?” asked Pyke as he pulled himself over a fallen log. His sword swung out behind him like a tail as he slowly hauled himself across. He seemed in no shape to hurry along, either.

  “No. But hopefully soon,” said Wolf Tongue.

  “The woman with the … figure?”

  “Yes,” chuckled Wolf Tongue, thinking odd how Pyke stumbled over her description this time. “And you? Do you have pale little children back in Jenkins Town?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps a woman? Or two?”

  There was a moment of silence, then, “There is a woman.”

  “Ah,” said Wolf Tongue. “I thought there might be. There is always a woman.”

  “Her name is Damaris.”

  Wolf Tongue tried out the strange name, “Damaris.” The English had such odd names. Even the one his own father had given him, Isaac, seemed more like nonsense than a man’s name.

  “We are to wed upon my return.”

  Wolf Tongue looked to him again. “You and I both have good reasons to find Storm-of-Villages then. Don’t think me ungrateful, but I guess you would rather lie beside her than with me in a cave.”

  Pyke cleared his throat and looked away, but Wolf Tongue thought he saw a hint of a smile.

  They continued up the slope ever so slowly. Wolf Tongue’s breath became a labor as they trudged higher and higher. The hill was not as high as the cliffs, but still, the effort was wearing. He made it more than halfway to the apex before he stopped and leaned against a tree to catch his breath.

  “She is beautiful?” he asked. “Damaris?”

  Pyke looked away toward the river to the east with a closed-lip smile. “She is Colonel Bennett's daughter.”

  “Does that mean she is not beautiful?”

  “She is beautiful. And very smart and kind. She—”

  “Sssstt!” Wolf Tongue cut him off and waved his hand. “Get down.”

  He heard the metallic hiss of Pyke drawing his sword, and though he did not remember doing it, Wolf Tongue found his tomahawk in his hand, too. He narrowed his gaze and stared out over the forest from where they’d come. He had thought he had seen movement, though his head still swam and he could not be sure.

  After another moment, it became clear. From their height on the side of the hill, he could see out along the banks of the river nearly to the cliffs. Not far behind them came splotches of brown winding through the forest and along the bank. He could count three men. He pointed. Pyke followed his gaze and nodded.

  Azariah’s men were following their trail and moving fast.

  Twelve – The Hunted

  Pyke was grateful once again for the Susquehannock’s eyes. Still relatively new to soldiering, he tried to estimate how much time they had on their pursuers but found it difficult. They were less than a mile ahead of Azariah’s troop, uneven ground separating them from their hunters, but he couldn’t translate that into minutes.

  He turned his gaze to Wolf Tongue, who leaned with exhaustion against a tree. The man was putting on a brave act, though he was clearly not fully recuperated. “How much time do we have?”

  The Susquehannock answered quickly, as if expecting the question. “Not much. Less if we don’t move.” The Indian pushed himself off the tree and took three quick breaths.

  “How much farther to the camp?” Pyke asked, his eyes following the trail of the gurgling river below.

  “An hour. Maybe two.”

  Pyke cursed to himself. Wolf Tongue was in no condition to keep the pace for that long. He didn’t think he was either.

  He kept his eyes on the Indian. “I did not pull you out of the depths of hell only to see you willingly plunge yourself back into them.”

  “I can move. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Pyke wasn’t convinced. But they had no other options. “All right, then. Let’s move.”

  With renewed vigor, the Susquehannock took off. Pyke followed closely behind, matching the man’s mad pace step for step. They crested the hill with weak lungs. Pyke nearly lost his footing on the down slope as the ground rushed to meet the riverbank, but he managed to stay upright.

  The river began its lazy bend to the east. Soon the hill flattened and they were engulfed in the forest again. Pyke did not look once back over his shoulder. He didn’t have the strength.

  Nor did he have the breath to ask Wolf Tongue if they were close.

  They kept the pace. Pyke’s heart pounded fiercely, and his head felt light. Only the adrenaline of their flight kept him going. He had no idea where the Susquehannock drew his strength, but the man had tapped into some hidden reserve.

  They chased through the forest. Pyke’s stomach revolted, and he gasped with heavy breaths. And his whole body, especially his flanks, began to feel i
tchy. Between strides he clawed at himself through his clothes, finding only minimal relief.

  The whole world tinted yellow. Pyke’s vision seemed to narrow. He gulped in as much air as he could and blew it out.

  “Take the … tension out of … your body …” Wolf Tongue gasped from two steps ahead. “Keep your strides … short … and controlled …”

  Pyke tried to loosen every muscle of his body. It helped. He heeded the Susquehannock’s other advice as well.

  Mercifully, his second wind arrived. His heart still pounded fiercely, but it indulged his run. He suddenly found surer footing in the slick snow.

  The earth began to tilt again, another hill rising before them in the forest. Pyke lost a foot but righted himself before he went down. They pressed on.

  How much time had passed? It felt like hours but Pyke knew that time was the Devil’s plaything: it fooled a man and never ran at the pace he wanted. It was probably only a quarter hour that they had run. He prayed to God for strength, and for clear passage. He knew if they met an enemy he would fall to the man’s musket or sword. He had no strength left for a fight.

  The hill continued to rise, the harsh incline punishing Pyke’s already screaming legs. His throat was as dry as sawdust, even though they had drunk their fill in the cave earlier this morning. He swiped snow from the ground in rough handfuls and put it in his mouth. The chill stung his teeth but also refreshed him. When he was able to extend his mind beyond his own body and the four feet of space ahead rushing to meet his sore feet, he spotted Wolf Tongue doing the same thing.

  The trees grew sparser, and the hill leveled. The sun climbed high but was a pale, colorless glow behind the high clouds. At least there was no wind.

  “We’re close,” Wolf Tongue snorted. The man did not sound well. Pyke had been too wrapped up in his own struggles but now he noticed the Susquehannock stumbled his way more than run.

  “We must … break—”

  “No. We won’t start again if … we stop.”

  Pyke was about to voice his protest, but before he could, the Susquehannock lurched and crashed to the ground, nearly splitting his head on the base of a tree.

  Pyke fell to the man’s side. The Indian’s lungs heaved, and the man struggled to get up, but Pyke stilled him by putting his hand on the man’s chest. “We rest for a moment.”

  “Our legs will cramp if we don’t keep moving.”

  The Indian spoke the truth. Pyke’s father had warned him of stopping in the midst of a long run. His father had also told him the best way to cover long distances was to alternate between running and walking equal measures. Pyke felt certain they’d put some extra distance between themselves and Azariah’s men.

  “All right. Get up you stubborn bastard,” Pyke said with a smile.

  The Indian forced a smile and accepted Pyke’s help to his feet. “For an Englishman, you run well. I was afraid I’d have to carry you when we started.”

  “We alternate between running and walking to keep a pace.”

  The Susquehannock leaned against the tree and put his head down to breathe. “They know we go to the camp. Even if we outrace them, they have our destination.”

  Pyke had already thought the same thing. “We need a diversion. We’ll figure something out along the way.”

  The Indian nodded. “I’m ready.”

  They set out again, this time more slowly. A cramp seized Pyke’s side, and he latched onto his flank and took deep, deep breaths as they went.

  The forest broke, only to yield to another rising hill. “Damn this country,” Pyke said. “There are more hills here than Rome.”

  The Indian slowed to a halt. “It is not far now. The river bends more to the east, and a creek will break away from it. The town is along the creek.”

  Pyke surveyed the treeless land before them. “And we are left exposed the rest of the way. They will see us.”

  “There’s nothing to be done about that,” Wolf Tongue said. “Even if they lag far behind, they still know where we head.”

  A diversion. They needed something.

  Wolf Tongue’s lip curled. “We set a snare then. They expect us, but they don’t expect us to be waiting for them.” The Indian turned to face the forest. “We’ll have surprise.”

  Pyke couldn’t help but admire the man’s courage. He was barely able to flee, and yet, in his tenuous condition, he made show to fight.

  “It is not like last time with the scalpers. We had arms, our wits, and rested bodies.” He put a hand on Wolf Tongue’s shoulder. “Let us figure another way.”

  The Susquehannock quickly opened his mouth to voice the dissent written all over his face, but the words died in his throat. That perpetual smile carved itself onto his lips, and he chuckled. “What does your book say? That pride comes before the fall?”

  Pyke chuckled and smiled ruefully. So close but not close enough to the town. And they were unable to fight.

  “What do you Susquehannock do when fleeing an Englishman?”

  Wolf Tongue smirked. “We do not flee Englishmen.”

  Pyke laughed this time. The Indian always found the humor in a situation. “There is no time to create a false trail.”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment before surveying their surroundings. “Nothing here but a couple hollowed out logs,” Pyke said.

  At this, Wolf Tongue’s expression changed. He looked over Pyke’s shoulder and said, “The river.”

  Wolf Tongue motioned him to follow, and he did. “We won’t actually use the river. We’ll make them think we did.”

  The Indian led him down the slope of the hill to the soft riverbank. The water was murky and sluggish. Then the Susquehannock took in their surroundings quickly.

  “Make them think we used a canoe,” Pyke said.

  Wolf Tongue nodded.

  “Quickly, then. We must assume they are as fast as we are.”

  “Maybe fast as you are, but they are not as fast as me,” Wolf Tongue said with a wink.

  ***

  They dragged the log through the woods back to the riverbank, making sure to leave a thick line in its muddy wake. At the riverbank, they gave the log weight by putting some rocks into it. With a few exaggerated motions back and forth, they carved a deep indentation into the riverbank so their pursuers’ eyes would be drawn to the spot.

  The Susquehannock slid the trunk fully into the icy water and, with one last look at Pyke, let it go. The makeshift decoy bobbed and swayed as it drifted into the midst of the river, caught the current, and built speed. Now they just had to get lucky and hope that the log did not snag without anyone steering it.

  They splashed across the river, wading through stomach-deep water, and clambered up the opposite side. They needed to hurry now. If the ruse worked, their pursuers would watch the river and search for a canoe, while, in the woods on the other side of the water, they would be able to hurry to the village unharassed.

  “No marks on the bank,” Pyke said, as he came out of the river shivering. He launched himself forward onto a dry patch of land, and Wolf Tongue did the same.

  “I hope you’re ready to run again,” Wolf Tongue said. “Because they’ve had a few minutes to gain on us.”

  “Let’s not waste any time,” Pyke said, climbing through the bank of stones into the forest. “We must—”

  Wolf Tongue nudged him from behind. “Ssst.”

  Pyke immediately dropped to the ground and rolled till he was behind a crowd of trees. He hugged the leaf-covered earth, and Wolf Tongue joined him on the ground.

  “I thought I heard someone,” Wolf Tongue whispered.

  Inch by slow inch, Pyke craned his neck for a better look. He listened intently, but couldn’t hear anything over the whoosh of the river. Pyke cursed their luck. The men that followed ran on fresh legs and had likely been able to outpace them.

  Wolf Tongue nudged his shoulder and pointed.

  Pyke strained his eyes and saw them: three men he didn’t recognize an
d Azariah’s giant. They plodded along heavily, wearied from the chase. Pyke wondered if the Susquehannock had been right earlier, and that a surprise attack would have been the best course of action. That could not work now, because the river separated them. Pyke pushed the useless thought aside.

  What he would have given for a pistol in this moment. He had his sword, but the blade’s reach was only so far. And he had to assume these men were more adept than the would-be-scalpers from Millers Town who’d tried to ambush them days ago. Azariah would have recruited trained killers to his cause. A man like that, desirous of leadership and authority over others, needed strong, morally unconflicted brutes in his corner. That was always the way of things.

  A troublesome question blossomed in Pyke’s mind: was he just another immoral killer for Colonel Bennett? He didn’t have time to answer the question however, because across the way, a raised voice announced that the trail had disappeared. Pyke waited anxiously for them to notice the drag marks in the mud.

  “We may fight yet,” Wolf Tongue said, and Pyke thought he heard a smile in the man’s voice.

  “Unwise. We underestimated Azariah and his men before. We should not make the same mistake.”

  They fell silent as the huge man with the shaved head pushed his way through the bramble and emerged on the bank. Three others followed.

  “They kept a hidden canoe,” the shortest man said, barely audible across the water. “We need to hurry, Farkas.”

  All the men looked to the giant, but Farkas didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he examined the ground as if it were lying to him. “Slim chance they’d hide it so far out and still have a horse, ain’t it?”

  “It all fits,” the short man said. “The trail’s gone, and they dragged something into the river.”

  Farkas was unimpressed by the man’s logic. He kept his scowling eyes on the muddy riverbank for another moment, then looked up, his eyes almost following a direct line to Pyke and Wolf Tongue.