Eye of the Raven amoca-2

by Eliot Pattison

  Felton grimaced. "Why would I tell the Iroquois?"

  "Because they have suffered murders too. Similar murders, ritual murders."

  "Nonsense. If that is what they tell you, they toy with you. Everything those Iroquois chiefs do is about negotiation, another move on some great chess board. Their truths are like quicksilver."

  "Was Bythe's murder a move on that board?"

  "God rest his soul, yes. Bythe meant to root out the French sympathizers among the tribes, to strengthen the alliance. I have vowed to my uncle that we will even the score before this war is over."

  "Bythe's murder was almost identical to Burke's," Duncan observed. "Skanawati was in chains at the time."

  "Skanawati has confederates," Felton replied. "And while one murder might mean a personal feud, more than one surely means it is part of the war. The Iroquois begin to glimpse that English expansion will be unfettered if the French lose. Have you not wondered why the army has found no signs of the raiding party you yourself reported?" The Quaker did not wait for Duncan's reply. "Because the army scouts are all Indians allied with the Iroquois. The army has gone blind and doesn't yet realize it."

  Duncan considered Felton's words. "Did Bythe understand that?"

  "Of course. Which is why I have been his trusted eyes and ears these many months."

  Duncan mounted his horse. Felton rode alongside for a moment. "I admire your courage, Scotsman. Murderers in front of you and bounty hunters behind."

  "Lord Ramsey is in Philadelphia," Duncan countered.

  "His money reaches far beyond the city. News in the wilderness spreads like it has wings," Felton said as he wheeled his horse about. "Every teamster in the convoy will know by tonight. You'll have a few days at most before word of the bounty reaches Shamokin. Thirty pounds is enough to tempt even the most saintly of Christians. Whether they take you for the bounty or kill you to stop you finding their treachery, either way they will be fighting over scraps of your hide by the end of the week." The Quaker pressed his heels to his mount and was gone.

  Duncan watched Felton gallop away, puzzling over the threatening tone that had risen in his voice, then turned to catch up with his friends. But suddenly he reined his horse around to watch Felton disappear down the road. Bythe had told the magistrate that Burke's rifle was headed north with a renegade from a smaller tribe. Felton, Bythe's trusted eyes and ears, who seemed to be urging Duncan to flee, insisted it had vanished with an Iroquois into the west. Either the dead provincial official or the zealous Quaker scout had lied.

  As they climbed the ridges he pushed down his fear of bounty hunters by revisiting the murders in his mind. It was easy to assume the murders were a consequence of the war, but Duncan's every instinct said otherwise. Bythe had started out thinking he knew those responsible, had assured the Pennsylvania government he would expose the French agents behind the murders. But that had been wishful thinking, since such a solution would have avoided enmity between the tribes and the English. After Burke's murder what Brindle and Bythe had hoped for was a solution that would show that Skanawati had been manipulated by the French, allowing them to declare him their mutual enemy's unknowing victim. But there had been no signs of a French raiding party at the tree where Bythe was attacked, only tracks of two men in moccasins in addition to Bythe, and no one outside the convoy could have known Bythe would be going to the tree. The Quaker emissary had paid for his misjudgment with his life.

  Duncan found himself wondering why the dead Quaker had so abruptly decided to go to the boundary tree. He recalled his conversation with Brindle. Bythe had seen Van Grut's journal, after which he told Brindle he understood what had to be done. He had discovered new information in those pages that changed his perspectives on the murders. The code. What he had seen on those pages, Duncan now realized, had been the code. Bythe had recognized the code, had known its workings, and had gone to the tree with a borrowed knife to use it.

  Above a patch of blood on the tree had been four symbols and an incomplete one, all with slash marks through them, with another, longer set of complete ones carved overhead. Based on Van Grut's sketches the Pennsylvanian had thought he had found a way to leave a message for the killer. But what he found at the tree had been the killer himself, who recognized that Bythe, though no surveyor, had learned enough to be dangerous.

  There had been a hole in the bloody tree, three feet from the ground. Bythe had struggled, ripping out the nail that had fastened his hand. Duncan had followed the path of blood to the stream above the waterfall. The Quaker had stumbled to the water, where the killer had finished him, then had returned to carve his death message on the tree.

  The four warriors accompanying them set a merciless pace. They insisted on paddling at night under the bright gibbous moon as the others slept in the bottom of the two large canoes. When Duncan tried to join them, he struggled to maintain their rhythm, but finally surrendered and lay back on the packs. It was one of the most beautiful nights he had experienced in years, and it put him in mind of moonlit sails among the Hebrides taken with his grandfather as a boy. The two sturdy canoes, readily offered to them when they had reached an Indian village at the river's western bank, were like creatures of the night, the water singing at their prows, the silver ribbons of their wake pointing ever north.

  For long, calming moments, Duncan thought not of the terrible mystery that drove their journey, but only of the deeper mysteries that animated the strong, silent people of the wilderness. He had come to realize that the poetry in the souls of Conawago and Skanawati, even of the four braves in the canoes, was something that would forever elude the logic of Europeans. The most Duncan could hope for was to experience it, the way an artist experienced the impossible crimson and gold of a sunset.

  "When he sleeps," an unsteady voice said near his ear, "the chief keeps the skin of a snake pressed close to his heart."

  He turned to see Mokie's face in the moonlight. She was frightened. "You mean Skanawati."

  The girl nodded. "Near scared mama to death when she first saw it."

  Duncan gestured the girl closer. "The tribes consider the birds to carry messages to the gods," he explained. "But snakes are especially sacred. Snakes bring dreams, and in dreams, the tribes say, you visit the spirit world."

  "You mean he talks to ghosts?" There was now more curiosity than fear in the girl's voice.

  The words gave Duncan pause. He had almost forgotten Skanawati's words from the first day they had met him. He had embarked on the Warriors Path to speak with ghosts, not just to speak with them, but to be told how the Iroquois would leave the servitude of the English king.

  "I was talking to ghosts that night with my pipes," Duncan said.

  The girl nodded again, yawning. "I think it was them who brought me back from that dark place." She nestled into Duncan's shoulder to sleep. "I hope they take him where he needs to be."

  The girl's last words strangely disturbed Duncan. He could not shake the feeling that the truth he so desperately sought was indeed bound up between Skanawati and his ghosts.

  When he looked away from the sky again he saw that Conawago was awake, half-turned to look behind the canoes. More than once in their voyage Duncan had seen him looking over his shoulder. "Are we being followed?" Duncan asked.

  "I feel it, yes. But it is a busy river. I could be mistaken."

  "The killer has only struck on the Warriors Path," Duncan reminded his friend.

  "The killer," Conawago countered, "makes ritual murders on the trail. Off the trail he may not need to be so fastidious."

  By the time they landed below Shamokin the next morning, Mokie had repeated, without Duncan's bidding, what she and her mother had been instructed to do were they to reach the Indian town alive. Find the trail that rose above the southern edge of the town, they'd been told, and go to the fort that was not a fort, then ask again for the great bear.

  "Was it Captain Burke who gave you those instructions?" he asked.

  "On a piece of pap
er from Captain Burke," the girl confirmed. "We had to burn it after, he said. Captain Burke, and Mr. Hadley, they teach mama and me how to read and write. Captain Burke, he would say that he would see we would always have jobs in the house, not out in the weather."

  "Why, then," Duncan asked, "did he change his mind? What made him help you flee?"

  "Don't know. We couldn't make the sense of it. He just took us into the summer kitchen and said we deserved better, that he had a way to help us, help everyone. Mama made him swear on a Bible he was not tricking us."

  "Help everyone? What did he mean by that?"

  But the child only shrugged.

  As Van Grut and Hadley disembarked, Duncan stood on the bank and stared with foreboding in the direction of the settlement, its existence marked by the many plumes of smoke rising over the low ridge before him. In English he recited Mokie's instructions for all to hear. The declaration brought a stifled laugh from Johantry, who translated it for his companions, raising more laughter.

  "Do you know this bear?" Duncan asked.

  Johantty raised a hand and pointed further down the ridge. "The bear's den is on the ridge," the young Iroquois declared then, exhausted, curled up for sleep on a bed of moss.

  Duncan had been to Iroquois villages with Conawago, and at Shamokin expected something similar, on a larger scale, long bark houses with fields of corn, squash, and pumpkins stretching out from them. But it was no metropolis of longhouses he saw as they crested the ridge. The town seemed to consist of pieces borrowed from several different communities, haphazardly jammed together. Close to the river, on the long, curving flat at the junction of the north and west branches, there were indeed several longhouses, though half appeared abandoned. Here and there were clusters of log cabins, connected by muddy byways and most surrounded by primitive snake-rail fences that kept in milk cows. Scattered about were more prosperous-looking cabins, with even a few substantial stone houses standing out amid rich fields of bottomland. A small stone church stood by a graveyard. Beyond everything, just above the fork, was a log palisade structure, the fort used by the militia.

  The hammer of a smithy by the river rang out, near which several men labored over a new bargelike vessel resting in a log trestle. Kegs were being rolled from one of the heavy cargo canoes that plied the river. Duncan watched their progress, spying a substantial cabin against which more kegs were stacked. A tavern. Two familiar figures emerged from the trees and walked toward the church. Van Grut and Hadley had agreed to explore the town as Duncan and Conawago escorted Mokie to her mysterious rendezvous.

  When he first looked down on the compound below the laurel thickets, Duncan thought they had found another military fort, then saw that the structures were old and in disrepair, placed not for defense of the river forks but more for a view of the town. As he approached he saw that not all was tumbledown. The central gate had been recently rebuilt, and the dominant building appeared to have been created by constructing a hall against an older structure with the appearance of a church. Years earlier, he suspected, the compound had been built as a mission. Now it was alive with industry, men in buckskins and breechcloths counting and tying furs in bundles, others operating one of the heavy wood-screw presses used to compress stacks of hides for shipment. Several Indian women were hanging fish on long drying racks. On the wall of the new construction he saw a huge bearskin. Fighting a fresh foreboding, wishing he had not left his gun at the landing place, Duncan turned to tell Mokie to remain with Conawago while he explored further. But she was gone. He looked frantically about and spied her running through the open gate with Conawago trotting to catch up with her.

  He nearly collided with his friend as he darted through the gate moments later. Conawago was frozen, staring at a huge device made of wood, leather, and bone. It was spinning about, propelling several Indians in a circle as they sat on short planks suspended on ropes. Duncan gazed in disbelief at the machine, which was built around a heavy wagon wheel mounted horizontally atop a thick post functioning as an axle. Extension poles had been strapped with leather to the spokes of the wheel and hung with the rope swings at their ends. Antlers and small skulls adorned the end of the poles. Impossibly, it was a carousel, a particularly Indian carousel. Three small Indian children swung with cries of glee as an older Indian man propelled the machine by pulling on a rope hung from one of the extension poles. Two adolescent girls and a woman sat on the other seats, making no sound, their eyes filled with wonder.

  A shriek from inside the large building broke their spell. Duncan and Conawago darted inside, past a sleepy Indian propped on a keg beside the door who sounded a surprised, halfhearted warning at their sudden appearance. Conawago's hand was on his warclub, Duncan's on his tomahawk, as they sprang into a large chamber.

  They were met by high-pitched laughter. It took a moment for Duncan to realize that it came from Mokie, pointing at them in amusement, as if they were performing on her behalf. She sat at a long table eating bread and honey off a wooden plate beside a man with a great black beard. With one foot on the bench beside the girl, he was tuning a fiddle.

  The stranger began a lively reel, bowing in greeting without stopping his music. He leaned over Mokie, playing with great speed and skill, finishing with a flourish and a hearty laugh that shook his well-fed frame. He nodded his head toward his two new guests. "The mademoiselle has her first sweet taste of liberty. Surely worthy of a celebration."

  "It looks like only bread and honey to me," Duncan observed.

  "The plantation masters are far away," the man replied, stiffening. "The mountains are high."

  "You are French," Duncan said, at once embarrassed by the unnecessary observation but unable to hide his surprise.

  "A label bestowed by birth is impossible to deny." The man pushed the pot of honey closer to Mokie.

  Conawago paced about the long table, eyeing the man with the same distrust Duncan felt. He paused at the only refined piece of furniture in the chamber, a little cherry table on which sat a solitary cross and a Bible. In the dust on the table he drew two letters with his fingertip. An S and a J.

  The Frenchman's smile dimmed for a moment. He stepped to the table and erased the marks with a sweep of his hand. "That particular label I was able to abandon."

  "For the profits of a merchant," Conawago shot back.

  Duncan looked from man to man, unable to grasp what was passing between them.

  "I came into the wilderness to aid the last uncorrupted people on earth."

  "I believe the doctrine says we all are corrupted," said Conawago.

  "That doctrine was devised by arthritic old men in Europe who never walked in the bowers of Eden." The man had grown serious, almost somber. "Sault St. Louis?" he asked of Conawago. "Swegatchy?"

  Conawago did not respond.

  Duncan stepped to the bench to stand behind Mokie. The girl pushed a heel of bread toward him.

  "So you left the Society of Jesus in search of Adam and Eve?" his friend asked.

  A Jesuit. At last Duncan understood. The Frenchman had been a Jesuit priest and had asked about two of the Jesuit missions that operated in the northern Iroquois lands. Though Conawago had never entirely embraced their faith, he had been in the care of Jesuits in Canada and Europe for much of his youth and had great respect for many of them.

  The Frenchman set his fiddle on the table and paced around the old Indian, studying him with a new intensity. "I came not to search for Adam and Eve but to ensure Eden might become the fortress they need to withstand the onslaught from without."

  "A mission by another name then," Conawago replied.

  "My name is Rideaux, old man. My Jesuit robe was ripped off my back before I had the chance to throw it off. And I tend to take criticism only from my friends, not trespassers."

  Conawago gave a small, bitter grin.

  "You redeem the Indians by building carousels and fur presses?" Duncan broke in. "Your mission has a decidedly commercial feel." He studied the man's huge beard,
which covered most of his face. "You are the great bear?"

  Rideaux's eyes flared. "Who are you?" he demanded, his gaze shifting from one man to another. "No one invited you inside my walls."

  "Like you," Duncan offered, "seekers of truth. Believers in new beginnings. Escorts for a young slave girl."

  "Slave no longer. Virginia property rights do not extend to our country."

  "Your country?" Duncan asked.

  "Iroquoia.

  "I thought we were in the province of Pennsylvania."

  "You are misinformed. This land has never been legally surrendered. Technically the colony's boundary ends miles to the south. We recognize no European sovereignty here."

  "We?"

  Rideaux did not answer, but looked past Duncan. Duncan slowly turned to see a dozen Indians, both men and women, watching from the shadows at the back of the chamber. "Your business is done here," the Frenchman muttered. "We thank you for delivering the girl."

  Mokie linked her arm with Duncan's. "We were promised supplies," she said. "In Shamokin there would be supplies."

  "Not here, mademoiselle. In town. The log cabin with two floors. I will take you there."

  Mokie shook her head. "I am with them. If they say I must return to the Virginians I will do so," she said with a conviction that quite astonished Duncan.

  Rideaux's expression darkened. Something seemed to pass between him and the Indians. Duncan rose and stood beside Conawago. The questions that had leapt to his tongue suddenly seemed far less important than finding a safe egress from their host's strange compound. Several of the men, sturdy warriors all, began advancing, one with a length of rope, one with an iron bar, one with an ax.

  "Skanawati!" Mokie suddenly blurted out. She darted from Duncan's side to stand between himself and the Indians. She pronounced the name again, like a loud command. The company froze.

  Rideaux stared as if dumbstruck. "What did you say, ma petite?"

  "We come from the Great Chief of the Iroquois!" She spoke still loudly but faster, as if rushing to get all her words out before her nerve broke. "Mr. McCallum and Mr. Conawago are trying to keep him from being hung from a Pennsylvania gallows! Mr. Conawago was going to die when my master was nailed to a tree, and Mr. Skanawati took his place, and the Hurons attacked us in a field of skulls to take an old smelly body, and they tried for my scalp but I fought them off with stones!"