Language of the Bear

by Nathanael Green

  Wolf Tongue walked at the head of the group in long, slow strides. He had begun the day already sore from his previous injuries, but now had even more. The sword cut on his arm burned fiercely, though it impeded him little. The knife wound in his stomach, though, throbbed in a sharp hammering with each heartbeat as if it were being opened anew with an axe again and again. That, combined with the other wounds made his breath shallow and painful and his walk slow.

  This time, though, his pain was born of his victory. He did not slink back to the village with dire warnings, but with triumph. Beside him, Pyke walked in a similar pained manner with his captive, bound at the wrists, beside him. She made no protests, but stumbled along with a sour, downcast face.

  Wolf Tongue had once tried to speak with Pyke, but he seemed even more reluctant than usual, as if he did not want to speak near the woman. Wolf Tongue looked over at her, studying her for a moment. She was a good-looking woman, for a quhanstrono, despite her disheveled attire, skinniness, and strange, fiery hair. He again wondered at what role she had played in all this. Perhaps once they got to the village, he could speak alone with Pyke.

  She looked up then with dark eyes staring from under her eyebrows. Her gaze was narrowed and cold, her mouth pinched and jaw clenched. He saw her nostrils flare in a seething hate as she stared at him, then she turned back to the ground ahead to continue in silence.

  Perhaps she was Storm-of-Villages’ woman and Pyke now took her as his own. Wolf Tongue thought quhanstrono usually only took one wife, but maybe Pyke would have her as a slave instead.

  He was pulled from his thoughts as whooping erupted around him. Ahead, he could see the back of a young girl, perhaps ten, running toward their village atop the hill. She would announce them, if the warriors’ calls didn’t.

  Those who’d stayed behind, women, old men, a few of the warriors who’d stayed close or else were scouts, came rushing from the opening in the palisade. Many of the men around him rushed forward to greet their loved ones. In what seemed a flurry, Wolf Tongue found himself moving through a crowd, up the hill, and again in the village.

  People swarmed around the war party, asking questions, crying over the safe return of a loved one. Keening over the cold body of a fallen warrior. Every voice that was left to the Susquehannock filled their little village, the ways among the longhouses painted with the tones of grief, love, triumph, relief, bitterness, and joy.

  Just as they neared the Ring of Ancestors, Wolf Tongue spotted Fox’s Smile. She held her younger brother’s head in her hands, examining a small wound he’d gotten in the fight. She looked up to see him and for an instant, he saw fear and worry as she assessed his blood-soaked clothes and wan face. Then the look was gone, replaced by a secret smile that he thought only he could see. She patted her brother’s arm and let him turn to speak to Lifting Smoke and came forward to him.

  “You aren’t dead,” she said.

  “No. Not today.”

  She studied his face. “You’re still not any handsomer.”

  “It’s the war paint. When I wash it off, you’ll see.”

  Her smile widened and they slipped into a hug. Her fingers trailed along the back of his neck while he pulled her against him. He longed to pull her tighter, closer, and he sighed when she tightened her grip. Then he grunted at the pain of his wounds.

  Fox’s Smile released him and slid back to examine him. She lifted his shirt to expose bandages soaked through with blood.

  “I’ll tend to this,” she said as her eyes moved along the rest of his body, searching for more wounds. “And your arm, too,” she said.

  As if deciding he would not die immediately, she turned with a sigh to Pyke. The soldier stood alone among the Susquehannock, the woman tethered to him. In English, Fox’s Smile said, “And you, Hugh Pyke. May I care to your hurt?”

  Pyke glanced at the woman to his side as if unsure what to do with her. “My wounds will heal,” he said.

  “Perhaps we can make them heal faster,” said Fox’s Smile. “I owe that much to the man who kept Wolf Tongue alive.”

  Wolf Tongue pursed his lips in a chagrined smile, but said nothing. Pyke nodded his silent assent and stood awkwardly as Fox’s Smile placed her hands on his shoulder.

  Wolf Tongue turned at the sound of his name. Through the crowd came Black Tooth, a man a few years older than him who’d gone with Bone Snake as a scout. The man seemed winded, but otherwise whole.

  “I found no one to the west,” he said. “And by the looks, I missed the battle.”

  “You did, but you did what was most needed. We’ll tell all tonight around the fire and at the funerals. Right now, we need peace and to tend to our wounds. Will you take the prisoners and another warrior or two and guard them? Put them together in the tanning hut and guard the door until we’re ready for them. But keep the women separate.”

  Black Tooth moved to leave. Wolf Tongue grasped his arm.

  “The other scouts?” he asked. “Strikes Twice and Takes-the-Knife?”

  “I don’t know about Takes-the-Knife. He might still be scouting.” Black Tooth licked his lips and looked away for a heartbeat. “I found Strikes Twice west of the battle.”

  The darkness in his voice told Wolf Tongue what he needed to know of his uncle. “The Oneida?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  Black Tooth nodded. “There were tracks all around him and blood that was not his. I brought his body back. He’s with Bone Snake.”

  Wolf Tongue felt a new pain in his abdomen as he realized he’d sent his uncle to his death. He swallowed past it, adding the sorrow to that of all the other Susquehannock who’d died. He patted Black Tooth’s arm. “Thank you.”

  Black Tooth returned a wan smile. His eyes lingered on Wolf Tongue for a moment, as if to offer a silent apology.

  Black Tooth nodded once more, then stepped toward the woman Pyke had captured. The soldier tensed as if threatened.

  “It’s all right,” said Wolf Tongue. “We’ll guard the prisoners until we are rested. She will be safe with the other women.”

  Pyke eyed Black Tooth for a moment, then grudgingly stepped back. The woman did not protest or make any noise as she was led away. Pyke watched her go with a pained expression, his eyes lingering on her even as he winced at Fox’s Smile’s renewed prodding.

  “That is Damaris Bennett,” he said. He said it as if through a taste of bile, his stomach and jaw taut.

  Fox’s Smile stopped her work and stood back to her full height to look Pyke in the eyes. After a moment, Pyke removed his gaze from Damaris and refocused on Fox’s Smile, then to Wolf Tongue.

  A pained, forced smile appeared on his lips. “I do not think we shall marry now.”

  Wolf Tongue could find nothing to say as he recognized the import of the woman. This was the woman he’d loved, who was apparently somehow related to Storm-of-Villages.

  Fox’s Smile smoothed one hand over Pyke’s arm.

  They stood among the crowd for another moment while Black Tooth and a few others herded the captives into guarding. There would be a feast this evening, and preparations for funerals, and dancing, and prayers and offerings of thanksgiving to Hahgwehdiyu. There would be many tales of the battle, not least would be Wolf Tongue’s fight and Pyke’s bravery on the hill. But first, Wolf Tongue would need to wash, let Fox’s Smile fully tend to his wounds, and rest for what promised to be a long evening.

  He turned to his English friend. “Today you are a hero of the Susquehannock,” he said. “But you look worse than a crow’s dinner. Let’s prepare for the celebrations.”

  ***

  The moon had come and gone and the fire subsided to a shin-high surge of light by the time the dancing, feasting, and telling of tales tapered off. Wolf Tongue sat with Pyke to his right while Fox’s Smile curled against his unwounded side. They huddled close to the fire for its warmth, and though the night was more than halfway through, Wolf Tongue fought the urge to retire to bed.

  Pyke had endured the ceremonies
with a reserved curiosity. Though he declined to join in the dancing, Wolf Tongue had seen him tapping his heel along to the rhythm of West Wind’s Dance. In the tale-telling, Pyke had spoken curtly and straight-forward about his charging of the hill. Wolf Tongue’s embellished translation and Runs-in-Water’s comments were much more to the Susquehannocks’ liking. When he was finished, he gave Wolf Tongue a slanted look, but Wolf Tongue only smiled and shrugged.

  Many in the tribe had won glory in the battle, including many of the dead who were honored. Kicks-the-Oneida had killed at least three men and wounded many others and was heaped with praise. Most of the honor, though, came to Wolf Tongue. He did not tell his own tale this time, as others spoke of his final charge to break the quhanstrono and Oneida, of beheading Storm-of-Villages with his own sword.

  Now, he and Pyke sat on the blankets surrounded by gifts from others in the tribe. Pyke wore a leather thong around his neck that supported a quill-work sheath and hunting knife given to him by Runs-in-Waters’ sisters. Beside him sat a pile of trinkets and smaller gifts from others in the tribe, an embroidered shirt, a tobacco pipe, a tomahawk. The tribe had erupted in laughter when Fox’s Smile had presented him with a carved bone comb.

  “For your lovely hair that our men cannot grow,” she’d said.

  Pyke took the gift in good nature and smiled and laughed along.

  Wolf Tongue, too, sat with many gifts, a new tomahawk, a silver bracelet, decorated blankets. But he, as well as Pyke, had given away nearly as much as they’d received. Much of the spoils they took from the battle were redistributed among the other warriors and to the matrons and holy men who’d tended their wounds.

  As the fire lowered, so did the conversation. Only a handful of groups still sat by the flames, each conversing in lowered voices Wolf Tongue could only barely hear.

  “What will you do now?” he asked Pyke.

  Pyke’s face seemed to take on more color than it had recently as it reflected the fire. “I must return to Jenkins Town,” he said. “I will take Miss Bennett back to her father.” He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter as he stretched his legs out. “At the least, I will report my mission accomplished and try to rest enough so that I might heal.”

  “You can stay here with us,” said Wolf Tongue. “Stay a few days to gain your strength. Or forget your Colonel and live here.”

  Pyke stared at him in silence, seemingly considering the offer. “I could not in good conscience live indefinitely here with you.”

  Wolf Tongue shrugged. “We’d make you work. And besides, it’s better for me if you stay. Maybe we’ll have our own longhouse so I don’t have to live with my father-in-law.”

  Pyke smiled sadly and looked to his feet. “Thank you, but no. Tomorrow I must return to my duty. You two will wed soon?”

  Fox’s Smile sat up and looked at Wolf Tongue. “I think I have little choice. Though I hear many English are looking for wives,” she said.

  “Go, then,” said Wolf Tongue to Fox’s Smile. “I thought it was I who had no choice in the matter, but if ridding myself of your badgering is this easy, then I welcome it.”

  Fox’s Smile narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tempt me. I’m sure Hugh Pyke has friends who would worship a beautiful Susquehannock woman.”

  “Will you take her away?” said Wolf Tongue to Pyke, who sat with a small, silent grin. “I can face Storm-of-Villages in battle, but this one is too mean to live with.”

  Fox’s Smile pursed her lips in thought. Then, “No. You deserve the torture. I think I will stay here and marry you. If only to pain you for the rest of your life.”

  Wolf Tongue chuckled and turned back to Pyke. “Yes,” he said in answer to the earlier question. “We will wed. When the moon is right.”

  “Will it be a large celebration? Like tonight?” asked the soldier.

  “Much like this, yes,” said Fox’s Smile. “But happier. I hope there will be no death at our marriage.”

  “Will you be here? If we call for you when the time comes?”

  Pyke smiled genuinely then. “I will.”

  “And will you dance?”

  “If the moon is right, perhaps.”

  Twenty-Three – Honor in Valor

  The next morning, Pyke led Damaris through the sleepy village as the sun blazed on the horizon. He found the two horses Wolf Tongue had offered tied to those strange wooden posts.

  Damaris said nothing as he helped her onto the shorter horse. He was about to climb onto the other when he heard, “Pyke.”

  Wolf Tongue stifled a yawn as he came over.

  Pyke smiled at the sight of the man. “I did not think Wolf Tongue of the Wolf Clan was an early riser, especially after last night.”

  The Indian smiled as another yawn formed. Wolf Tongue reached them and offered his hand. “Good luck, my friend.”

  Pyke shook it. “Vale.” Careful to not stretch his wounds, he climbed slowly onto the other horse and flicked a glance at Damaris, who’d kept her eyes down-turned.

  Wolf Tongue smirked. “More wisdom from your dead Romans. What does it mean?”

  “Be strong.”

  Wolf Tongue nodded. “I am amazed by how smart your dead white men were.”

  Pyke laughed and urged his horse forward. Damaris followed his lead, and they rode out of the village.

  ***

  Along the road, Damaris was moodily silent. She rode when Pyke rode, rested when he rested. When he ate, though, she did not join him. Instead she sat as far removed as she could, her back to him. He didn’t try to engage her. Words failed him, and his emotions confused him. Alternately, he was angry and forgiving.

  As they drew closer to Jenkins Town, a change came about her. She started stealing nervous glances at him, and he expected her to break her silence. What was going through her head?

  But she didn’t speak.

  Before they reached Jenkins Town, Pyke cut her bonds and tossed them aside. Despite the fact she’d tried to kill him, he still did not want anyone to see her like that. It would invite even more rumors. As he removed the rope binding her wrists, she would not meet his eyes, nor did she thank him for the small kindness.

  At dusk, they entered the town’s limits and earned the open stares of everyone they passed. A few waved, and Pyke returned the gesture, but the rest regarded them silently.

  They reached Bennett’s mansion, and the Colonel’s footman charged out of the door as if he’d been waiting by the window.

  “Miss Bennett, allow me.”

  Silently, she climbed off the horse with the man’s help. Pyke slid off his mount and set foot in Jenkins Town again on saddle-weary legs. To the footman, he said, “We’ll see the Colonel now.”

  But there was no need to enter Colonel Bennett’s drawing room, where he typically conducted his business. The cribbage-faced old man came out onto the front stoop of the mansion.

  “Damaris.” His tone was at once relieved and accusatory. With paternal eyes, he regarded her for a moment.

  Then the Colonel looked at him, his face pinched in anger. “Inside, Mr. Pyke. You have a lot of explaining to do.”

  Pyke steeled himself for what would be another unpleasant, delicate conversation. He started forward but didn’t reach the door, because Damaris had stepped between him and the Colonel.

  “Father, we must talk first.” Her voice sounded strange to him because she had been silent since the battlefield.

  “It can wait.”

  “It cannot.” Then her icy tone melted, and she sounded almost childish. “Please.”

  The Colonel’s features softened as he stared at his daughter.

  Pyke didn’t know how he felt about this. What did she plan to say to the Colonel before Pyke could meet with the man? Obviously, she wanted her story heard first, but what would her story be?

  Pyke took another step toward the door. “Sir, I will not take much of your time. I will give you my report quickly, so you can attend to more personal matters.”

  D
amaris gave him a look, but its meaning was lost upon him.

  The Colonel put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “Later, Mr. Pyke. I will send someone for you.” Then, without further elaboration, he walked his daughter inside and the footman shut the door behind them.

  Pyke stood there a moment. What would the woman say?

  He was worried, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He rode back to the boarding house, walked the creaky stairs to the second floor, found his room intact, and sat on his bed. In his mind, he began preparing what he would say to the Colonel. It was going to be a difficult conversation.

  But his exhaustion finally got the better of him. In less than ten minutes, he was asleep, still wearing his clothes.

  ***

  Pyke woke fourteen hours later when someone knocked urgently on his door.

  “Who goes?”

  “Sergeant Davies, sir.”

  Pyke smiled at the strange accent and admitted the man. Davies had trimmed his previously unruly beard to stubble, revealing a drinker’s double-chin.

  “Davies, good to see you.” The sergeant registered real surprise when Pyke offered his hand to shake. Davies paused, not quite sure how to proceed at first, then he gripped Pyke’s hand and pumped it warmly.

  “And you, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, but the Colonel has asked for you.” Davies looked genuinely sorry. In his quiet moments on the trip home, he’d imagined this conversation with the Colonel in his mind over and over. He’d made sure to prepare for the worst. A lesson his father had repeatedly drilled into his brain since he was just a lad.

  “Very good, Sergeant. Would you help with my uniform?” Pyke asked.

  “Of course.”

  The shoulder wound still hurt like hell, so getting in and out of clothes was troublesome. Davies was no footman, but he didn’t seem offended by Pyke’s request at all. He carefully wrapped Pyke’s redcoat around him and helped the lieutenant weave his arms through.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” He buttoned up. The coat, normally snug, was a bit loose on him, despite the dressings under his shirt. The road and had taken its toll. “After you, Sergeant.”