Language of the Bear

by Nathanael Green

  “There is an order to things,” Pyke said.

  “Only the order that we make.”

  “Not all gentlemen are good, but I’ve known many that were, who live to serve their people.”

  “It is easy to be generous when you have all the money.”

  Pyke’s anger was rising. Azariah spouted off these romantic notions, but really he was just thinking about himself. “You think yourself such a great man? Then engage me with honor. A proper duel. Unless you’re a coward.”

  Azariah smiled. “Those are the foolish ways of all those aristocrats. I am but a humble servant.”

  Pyke saw right through the words of this madman. “Azariah, you can go to bloody hell.”

  Azariah pursed his lips and looked genuinely sorry. He stepped away from the tent pole and made to leave. Before he pushed open the flaps, though, he looked over his shoulder and cast one more glance at Pyke.

  “You can go to bloody hell first.”

  ***

  The night wore on. The strange music continued. Pyke worked at his bonds but couldn’t tear the ropes. He pushed and shoved at the tent pole, but it wouldn’t budge. He scoured the small radius of the tent within his reach for a weapon but found none.

  He was done for. His only chance of escape would be when they came for him. Perhaps the guards would be overconfident in their numbers, and Pyke could catch them unawares, seize a weapon, and …

  The plan of escape died in his mind when the flaps opened and she appeared.

  Damaris.

  Pyke couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The woman he loved, here, of all places. Her red hair was dazzling, her pearly skin intoxicating.

  “Miss Bennett, what in God’s good name are you doing here?”

  She smiled prettily. “Still calling me Miss Bennett, Hugh? When you’re about to be put to death. Ever the gentleman.”

  She drew a knife and approached quickly. He had no idea what she was doing, till she began sawing at his bonds.

  “Damaris …” Her name escaped his lips, and he was certain that his voice had finally, utterly betrayed his feelings for her.

  There were tears in her eyes and sadness in her voice as she hacked at the ropes around his wrists. “You will leave this place and never return, do you understand? No matter what my father has ordered you to do. You must promise me.”

  His head was swimming, so he didn’t respond to her demand. Instead, he said, “You must come with me. I would see you out of danger.”

  She stopped her cutting, and a tear streaked down her face. “I am not in any danger, Hugh.”

  The world came crashing down around him. It was true, then, what his captors had said on the road. She was Azariah’s.

  “Damaris, whatever has happened, whatever has happened, it is nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  Laughing ruefully, she wiped the tears off her face. “Nothing is broken, Hugh. Nothing needs to be fixed. I am here because I choose to be.”

  “Please, Damaris, you have been taken in by a madman. He is using you—”

  “He loves me!” she roared, a little too loudly. He feared they would be overheard. She dropped her voice, realizing the same thing. “He loves me, Hugh.”

  “I love you,” he said desperately. There was no point in mincing words now.

  “I know,” she said, returning to her work. She was silent as she hacked the rest of the way through the ropes. “I know that. And I am honored.”

  His hands free, he cradled her teary face in them. She did not resist. “We can be married, Damaris. All will be well. I will take care of you.”

  She stepped away from his hands. “Oh, Hugh. You don’t understand.”

  “What?” he said, gripping her shoulders.

  “After you left Jenkins Town, my father told me we were to be married.” She brought her red-rimmed eyes up to his again. “That is why I left.”

  He recoiled at the blow. A lump formed in his throat. He tried to swallow it, to maintain his bearing.

  “I see,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so very sorry.”

  She gripped his rope-burned wrists, and he could tell her remorse was genuine. “Then why set me free?” he asked.

  Her tears still flowed, but she managed to compose herself. “Two reasons. First, you must go to the Susquehannock and get them to see reason. Azariah will march against them in the next day. Their blood should not be spilled because my father forced them into this mission. They must make amends.”

  His worst fear was realized: Azariah would go after not only Wolf Tongue, but also the entire tribe. “Then why don’t you go talk to your man, and get him to see reason?” he asked, too bitterly.

  “He is a good man, but he is stubborn, like all men.” She shook her head.

  She was right. Damaris would probably never be able to change Azariah’s mind. He was a charismatic, if misguided, leader, not a mealy-mouthed self-doubter.

  “You will not believe my other reason, Hugh, but this is the God’s honest truth. I do have a great deal of affection for you. You are a true gentleman, and you will make a fine husband for a very fine lady one day.” Her words, though complimentary, stung him because they were a sharp reminder that Damaris would never be that very fine lady he would one day marry. “And I want you to know that, for as long as I shall live, I will hold a special place in my heart for you.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I will never forget that you dueled for my honor.” Then she looked down at their joined hands to say the next thing. “You should not have, you know. I did not deserve it.”

  His heart sank. The duel had not been just. He squeezed his eyes shut in disbelief.

  “Now, please, you must leave. There is a horse for you in the trees east of here. No one will see you slip out in the darkness.” She pointed to the rear of the tent and began to sob. “I can’t see you die. But you must promise me! Promise you will not come back for Azariah.”

  “I cannot make that promise,” he said.

  “You must!”

  He shook his head no. “I have already given my word to your father that I would see the deed through.”

  The only way he could help her was to kill Azariah. It was the only way. But he couldn’t tell her that. She wouldn’t be able to see the truth of it in this excited moment.

  He took her face in his hands again and did what he’d dreamed of doing since he’d known her. He kissed her delicate lips.

  She kissed him back, and a warm sensation swept through his entire body. What it would be like to taste those lips every night …

  He pulled away from her before he was carried away by foolish sentiments.

  She stiffened and moved away from him, folding her arms. “I’m not worried about Azariah. I’m worried about you.”

  He frowned, not understanding.

  “You go to your death if you continue on this mission.”

  “I will see the man dead, Damaris.” He had no idea how in this moment, but he spoke with certainty because it was his mission.

  She shook her head dismissively.

  “The man is a murderer, Damaris.”

  “The King has murdered many more than him, and yet you fight for him.”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but then she gave him her profile. There was no point in arguing further.

  In a voice drained of any sentiment, she said, “I’ve let you go. Now, the rest is on you, Lieutenant Pyke.”

  He stepped to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Damaris. You do the right thing. You just can’t see it yet.”

  She recoiled at his touch and pulled away. She would not meet his eyes.

  Pyke wanted to reach for her.

  Still looking away, Damaris held out the blade for him. When she spoke again, her voice was different, as if coming from some other place inside her.

  “While I distract the guard, tear a hole on that side of the tent. You will find a horse fifty paces away, a
long the edge of the forest.”

  He took the blade and waited, but she did not look at him again.

  “I love you,” he said.

  She ignored him and stepped out of the tent. Pyke waited a few seconds until he heard some laughter and raised voices from the side of the tent, then kneeled and quickly cut through the tent. He crawled through the tear.

  The great fire burned bright, sending sparks spiraling skyward while the music continued. He slipped quietly away and made hard for the trees behind the tent. In the darkness, it took a moment to find the horse. He climbed atop the animal and urged it onward.

  Pyke did some quick estimates. From here, Jenkins Town was at least a three-day ride. The Susquehannock village was closer than that. If Azariah moved with first light tomorrow, he could reach Wolf Tongue’s home at roughly the same time Pyke arrived at the Colonel’s home.

  Pyke would not be able to warn Wolf Tongue if he went to Jenkins Town first. It would be too late by then.

  Pyke only had a vague idea where the Susquehannock village was, but he pointed the horse in that general direction and rode off into the blustery night.

  He had to warn Wolf Tongue of the vengeance that was coming for his tribe, even if it meant giving up on any chance of help from Jenkins Town.

  Nineteen – Glory and Sorrow

  The icy water was a thousand tiny needles in the slice down Wolf Tongue’s cheek. He winced and scooped another handful from the stream between his legs and scrubbed it against the side of his face. His fingers came away painted with flakes of dried blood. He rinsed again and stepped away from the stream to sit atop a jutting rock beside the creek.

  He took a long breath as he raked the forest with his eyes. His wounds were still fresh and ached, though the bleeding on his face had finally stopped. It wasn’t a death-wound, but it had bled for what seemed like hours and he wondered whether he’d have a long scar.

  The rest of his body was sore, too, and he could not decide where days-old wounds ended and where his new ones began. Thankfully, most seemed to be bruises and aches as opposed to tears and breaks. He sighed and rested his elbows on his knees. He had run from the scene of the failed rescue until the night began to close in. Now, he’d stopped to clean himself of the mixture of blood and sweat and gore and mud. He’d meant to take a rest. To give himself time to heal for a moment, take some food.

  But as he sat, he felt as sore and as irritable as when he’d been moving. He shook his head as he looked to the ground between his feet where twists of fiddlehead ferns had just begun to push through a layer of crumbled, brown leaves. It was his spirit that was now as wounded as his body.

  There would be no rescue. Wolf Tongue had let his friend be carried away. What Pyke’s destiny would be, he did not know, but he felt sure it would not be pleasant. And alone he stood no chance of rescuing him now. Even if he weren’t exhausted, beaten, sore, and hungry, he could not get Pyke free from Storm-of-Villages.

  He had thought less of Storm-of-Villages, and that had been a mistake. One that would likely cost Pyke his life. Perhaps Wolf Tongue, too, if they still hunted him. Or even later, if they scorched the truth out of Pyke with searing coals.

  That thought gave Wolf Tongue pause. They might torture Pyke.

  He put one hand to his face and gritted his teeth. The thought of his friend suffering reignited a rage, but it also flashed another question in his mind—if they learned of the details, would Storm-of-Villages rain his vengeance on the Susquehannock?

  The clans of his tribe were already dwindling, with his village the only real congregation of his people left. Once, thousands of Susquehannock ranged and ruled much of Penn’s Woods and beyond, but now? The Iroquois and plagues of sickness had reduced their numbers painfully.

  And Storm-of-Villages certainly had enough men to harry their village and outlying families, possibly even attack the village itself.

  No. The Susquehannock could stand against him if that’s what he planned. But they needed to be warned. Lifting Smoke and the other elders would need to be given the knowledge that Wolf Tongue had lacked and only gotten when it was too late.

  Around him, the forest seemed to begin its slumber. The trees hunched as if in weariness as the sharp crimson of the setting sun dulled to the slate of twilight. His muscles, bruised and heavy like wet clay, howled for sleep. But his spirit chafed at the idea of rest. Slowly, Wolf Tongue unfurled himself to stand upright again. He slipped a slice of pork from his bag to eat as he walked.

  ***

  The days passed slowly, even as Wolf Tongue tried to make haste. Each night, he continued south and east until it was too dark to see, or his eyelids refused to lift. He slept briefly in the darkest hours of night or hidden in some bowl of the land or screen of branches. Always, he kept his musket to hand and his eyes strained for pursuit.

  He had become so used to listening and scanning for danger that he stopped and clutched at his musket as the smoke from his village came into view. Recognizing his home at last, he lowered his weapon and took a long, relaxing breath. He’d been two days on foot since he lost Pyke, and how many days before that he did not count.

  He redoubled his speed and soon the palisade on the hill rose out of the earth ahead. They had chosen a high hill and burned the trees around its base to prepare the soil for planting. He could see smoke curling from the tops of the longhouses, their sides and their inhabitants hidden from view by the logs that knotted around the perimeter of the village. To the south, he could see groups of women tending to the field in the sun.

  Wolf Tongue stepped onto the sole road that led up to the entrance, and as he neared the familiar fortifications, he felt a swelling of relief. Then, like the river after spring thaw, it passed, and as it receded it left a swirl of trepidation, frustration, and shame. He’d hurried back to his people to warn them, to rally them to the fight.

  The truth was that the danger was brought upon them by Wolf Tongue himself. If he had fulfilled his duty, and his oath to the Lenape, his people would be safe. Pyke would be safe and he would be returning with glory and his head held high.

  He had earned glory, came a small voice, but the thought made him grimace. True enough he’d fought in battle, had killed men, ambushed an enemy and made him flee, scaled the cliffs and leapt back off and survived.

  Those were the things of tales told for the generations. Yet, somehow, they did not seem to be quite the glory he sought because his deeds followed him like a wake of a canoe through the river. If he stopped suddenly, his actions would swell behind him and tip him and his people into darkness.

  He took another deep breath, and forced his shoulders back and his head up. He slung his musket over his shoulder and walked directly toward the Ring of Ancestors.

  As he neared, people began to crowd around him. He recognized the curious faces of his neighbors. At their questions, he’d shake his head silently or else simply nod in acknowledgment as they greeted him. They all knew he’d gone on some foolish quhanstrono errand, and all wanted the tale.

  Wolf Tongue would only tell it once. Lifting Smoke and the council, including Kicks-the-Oneida, would need to listen, to hear the danger in it.

  He looked to his left when a familiar voice called his name. His friend Runs-in-Water came trotting up the path from behind, his undecorated scalp lock waving in the wind.

  Wolf Tongue slowed until his friend came abreast.

  “You’re back,” said Runs-in-Water through quick breaths.

  “You have good eyes.”

  “And they can see that you look like a buzzard’s dinner.”

  Wolf Tongue grunted. He knew he must look bedraggled, but at least his wounds seemed to have begun to heal on his journey.

  Runs-in-Water laid a hand on his friend’s arm. When Wolf Tongue turned he only saw concern in the younger man’s eyes.

  “What happened?”

  Wolf Tongue forced a small smile. “I’ll tell you everything soon, but we’re in danger. And I need to talk
to the council and Lifting Smoke first.”

  Runs-in-Water grimaced and looked around at the gathering who now followed them. He sidled closer so that his shoulder brushed Wolf Tongue’s. “There’s … talk. About Kicks-the-Oneida,” he whispered.

  His friend’s urgent tone made Wolf Tongue’s eyebrows tighten as he leaned in closer.

  “When you fought him. To see who would go with the soldier? People are saying he lost on purpose.”

  Wolf Tongue stopped and turned fully to Runs-in-Water. “What?”

  His friend swallowed and looked around again at those gathered. Leaning in, he said, “He has a lot of friends. He’s a war chief, and he’s earned it. He’s even said that he just put on a show for the quhanstrono and let you win because he didn’t want to follow the English like a dog begging for scraps.”

  As he finished speaking, Runs-in-Water winced and looked away, as if ashamed at what he’d said.

  “Of course he’d say that,” he hissed back at his friend. “He never could tolerate being bested in anything.”

  Wolf Tongue sighed and glanced at the expectant faces watching him. How many of them thought him a fool? He shook his head and said, “Go find my mother. Tell her I’m safe.”

  Runs-in-Water nodded and left. Wolf Tongue watched him for a moment before he resumed his pace. The longhouses slipped past him, scattered to either side like giant boulders until he finally came to the center of the town.

  Lifting Smoke sat outside his family’s home. At his feet sat a girl of six summers, one of his nieces. The chief’s face was still old and worn as if he’d seen more years than his four dozen or so, but his eyes were clear and light and a smile opened his features. He was in the midst of telling a story with broad sweeping motions—the height of the battle in the Tale of the Warrior Girl.

  He stopped abruptly with one arm outstretched as he noticed Wolf Tongue and the throng following him. The chief’s face hardened as his arm lowered slowly. He regained a bit of his smile as he turned to his niece and smoothed her hair.

  As Lifting Smoke whispered something to her and then rose, Wolf Tongue felt his stomach tighten. He had come here to tell all, to warn his people. Now that he stood before much of what remained of their tribe, he felt the full brunt of the shame of his failure. He had brought this danger upon them. He had failed in his quest for glory, to prove that he was not weak because half his blood was of the quhanstrono. He had failed Fox’s Smile.