by Eric Flint
“Who knows of this, Elder Sister?”
Fourth Sparrow looked at her as they walked, her hand clutching Molly’s elbow for support. “Those who could deeply feel it knew it first, Degonwadonti. But now everyone knows. And they know you will protect us.”
“What do the enemies think? Have they tried to come into the compound?”
“They cannot,” Fourth Sparrow said. “At least for now.”
“What are they, then?”
“It is best not to say, Degonwadonti.” She gestured toward Molly’s belly. “For the sake of the child.”
“The child will awaken to a world full of these things,” Molly answered. “Do not hold your tongue, Elder Sister. What seeks to gain entrance to Fort Johnson?”
“Oniate,” she hissed. “You heard the tale of Ichsua.”
“Yes. The women of that village believe that one of them came to that village and told them to run. They ran here.”
“That one,” Fourth Sparrow said. She turned aside and spat. “That one is here. He is Oniate—the dry-hand is his hand. You can almost smell it from here.”
A hundred feet away, near the foot of the hill, Molly could see a small group of men just outside the low stone wall that surrounded the Fort Johnson estate. A portion of her heightened perceptions showed her the same ebony sparks she had seen before. For a moment she felt faint, but she shrugged it off as if she was taking off her shawl.
Now is not the time for weakness, she thought, and she was reinforced by seeing Joseph among the warriors at the gate. From the light of torches held by those nearby, she saw that he was tensed, as if he was ready to spring forward to attack the men outside.
Leaving Fourth Sparrow in the care of one of the warriors, she sped up her gait and walked directly to the gate.
One of the men just outside stood forward from the others. He appeared to be completely at his ease. He was dressed as a traditional shaman of the Seneca, properly decorated and painted. He face bore a disturbing smile; he kept his left hand concealed within a draped beaver cloak.
“Who are you,” Molly said, standing among the warriors at the gate, “and what do you want?”
“Ah,” the man said. “This must be the famed Degonwadonti, the widow of the Chief they called Big Business.”
“Widow,” Molly said levelly. “Tell me, shaman: do you know something I do not?”
“Little Sister, I know many things you do not. I know, for instance, that the man you lay with to make that mongrel that grows in your belly did not die well. He cried and wept like a woman.”
Molly’s hands formed into fists, but she did not let her expression change.
“Liar.”
“Words,” the shaman said. “Just words. You chose the white man, sweet little sister, to your shame. Now the ancient gods demand blood, and as they awaken, they will place their shoulders more and more to the matter of scouring the whites from the land. The Great Spirit demands it. Demands it.”
“The Great Spirit told you that, did he?”
The disturbing smile fell away for just a moment. The man withdrew his left arm from beneath his cloak to reveal his hand: a long-fingered, withered thing that he extended and flexed, nearly forming a fist and then raising it, palm out. Even in the light of the torches, the palm seemed utterly black.
Below the wrist was a crisscross of red veins like cat-gut strings, bound through the webbing between each of the bony fingers and wrapped tightly to the shaman’s forearm.
Behind her, she heard murmuring, and a sharp intake of breath—Joseph, she thought. She wondered what he saw.
“Look at it, Degonwadonti,” the shaman said. “Look into it deeply.”
“You do not frighten me,” she said. “And you shall not pass here.”
“Oh, I will,” the man answered. “As soon as Oniate consumes you.” He stepped forward—and a dozen arrows were nocked in a dozen bows.
“Not another step,” Molly heard Joseph say.
“Really, Little Brother,” the shaman said. “You do not give orders here. Come, Degonwadonti,” he continued. “Come and look into Oniate.”
Molly stepped forward, near to the stone wall. A hand touched her arm, but she shrugged it off.
“Sister—” Joseph said.
“Come, come,” the shaman cooed. “Surrender to the power of the Great Spirit.”
Molly took another step forward. There was a rustling in the woods nearby, but no one was taking notice.
Molly and the shaman stood on opposite sides of the wall, scarcely at arm’s length. He extended his skeletal hand—and when it reached the stone boundary it went no further forward. The shaman’s smile slipped once again. He seemed to be pushing against an invisible boundary, but it came no closer.
“Come to me,” the shaman said. “Some foolish medicine keeps me from coming to you. One step, Little Sister, and feel Oniate’s embrace.”
For just a moment Molly looked as if she was going to do just that—to step forward through the gate, transfixed by the darkness within the Oniate. Then, shattering the tension of the scene, a shot rang out from the woods.
It struck the shaman’s hand, shattering the extended fingers. The severed parts flew outward, struck the invisible barrier, and fell to the ground; but that incomprehensible moment was quickly replaced by something even more strange.
From within the palm a swirl of utter black erupted, quickly covering the remains of the hand, and then crawling up the shaman’s arm and onto his chest.
“Ciinkawe!” he shrieked. “Aid me, oh gods of storm and thunder! Come to me—”
Whatever else he intended to say was cut off as the blackness chased itself up over his head, cutting off a hideous scream. He collapsed to the ground, crumbling into a pile of dust the size of a bundled cloak, and then swirling away leaving nothing behind.
The other shamans did not manage three steps before falling to a rain of arrows shot by Joseph and the warriors around him. A moment later, a white man in a rather fancy British uniform stepped forward, handing his weapon to one of the other white men with him. From their clothing and gear, Molly thought they were colonial rangers.
Bows were ready and trained on him; but Joseph lowered his weapon and gestured to the others to do likewise.
“Allow me to present myself,” the young white man said, stepping into the firelight, with a glance at the spot where the Oniate-bearing shaman had stood a few moments before. “My name is Edward Augustus of Hanover, Prince of Great Britain. I thought it appropriate to intervene when you seemed to be in danger.”
He offered a courtly bow that appeared completely out of place in the circumstances, but Molly smiled and politely inclined her head.
“Thank you, Highness,” she said. “The shaman threatened, but he could not pass. Welcome to Fort Johnson.”
“I regret that I did not know your name, madame, except that the shaman called you Degonwadonti, and the widow of Sir William Johnson. I apologize for speaking of it, but is the gentleman dead?”
“There is no proof,” Molly answered. “But he rode west from here some weeks ago and has not returned. I still have hope, but it declines each day.”
Joseph touched Molly’s arm. “He is who he claims to be,” he said quietly. “I can see the aura of kingship around him.”
Molly nodded. “I do not know what has brought you to us, Prince Edward, but allow me to welcome you into our house . . . into my house. I am sure you have much news.”
The rain continued into the morning, but it brought a cooler breeze into the great house. Molly Brant presided at the breakfast-table, her brother at her side, and Prince Edward was impressed with the young woman’s gravity and presence. Indeed, he had never met a native quite like her.
“I was told,” Edward said, “that those shamans devoted to the idea actually replaced their own hand with this . . . dry hand. I did not believe it until I saw it.”
“I found it disturbing as well,” Molly said. “I hope there are not too
many others who have done so.”
“Most of these men have made wands with the dry hand on them. We have gathered several of them.”
“You have Oniate wands?” Joseph asked.
“Yes. I’m not sure just what we should do with them.”
“Destroy them with fire,” Skenadoa said from the other end of the table. He looked as uncomfortable as Molly looked at ease. “Along with the bodies of the others who transgressed the Great Spirit with these abominations.”
“Don’t you think we should examine them first?”
Skenadoa did not answer, but Molly fixed the older man with her gaze. He returned a blank expression, but she grew angry. “You have already done this.”
“It was the only thing to do, Younger Sister. I will not deny it, for you already can read me as readily as this young chief’s son—” he gestured toward Joseph—“can read trail sign.”
Molly placed her hands flat on the table in front of her, one to either side of her breakfast-plate. “That was not your decision to make. You should have consulted others. You should have consulted me.”
“When a warrior has his prey in his sights, he does not consult before loosing his arrow.” Skenadoa stood, pushing his chair back, scraping it along the floor. “If you do not like the choices I make, Little Sister, do not give me authority.” Without another word he turned and walked away. Molly rose in her seat, as if she was going to follow him, but remained standing, silent, her hands by her sides balled into fists.
Against General Wolfe’s advice, Prince Edward walked out among the refugees later that morning, accompanied only by Joseph Brant. Two of the rangers followed at Wolfe’s direction, keeping at a distance; Edward ignored them and made his way down the hill from the Hall. There were two bonfires burning steadily just beyond the gates, raising a noxious stink when the wind blew the smoke their way.
“You seem distracted, Prince Edward,” Joseph said as they walked toward the main gate.
“I suppose you could say that,” Edward said. “These . . . things. The Oniate. This is only the latest horror that this Guyasuta has sent at us. The Stone Coats, the Dry Hands, the Floating Heads of which I have heard . . . I don’t know what we are going to do. There seems no end to the monsters he can call forth.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“Of Guyasuta? If you had asked me six months ago if I was afraid of any man, would say certainly not: I am a civilized subject of my grandfather the king of Great Britain, and an officer in his Royal Navy. I feared nothing and no one. But now, facing these—powers—I feel powerless. Sooner or later, it seems, there will be some monster we cannot fight.”
“You are not powerless, Prince,” Joseph said. “And we are safe within the boundaries of Fort Johnson.”
“We cannot cower here forever, like—like—”
“Like refugees?”
“If I were a more sensitive man, or a more haughty one, I might call that insolence, Joseph.”
“Then you are neither, I presume.”
Edward sighed. “No. I am neither. But while I appreciate that I am safe here, and that Molly has some protective power, sooner or later I must leave Fort Johnson and return, probably to New York. I cannot remain here.”
“I understand.”
“And while we have overcome many things, I worry that there is something else waiting out there. Waiting for me.”
“It is true that your aura might attract enemies, but—”
“My what, now?”
“Your aura, Highness. Your royal aura.”
“I do not take your meaning, Joseph. My . . . aura?”
Joseph put his hands on his hips and squinted at Prince Edward, moving his head slightly from side to side and up and down. “You have the aura of a king.”
“I am no king. I am not even the ranking prince.”
“In this world you are,” Joseph answered. “And from what I see, you are a king in waiting. There is an aura that I can see—that perhaps you cannot. It is my gift, my power, you might say, to see things. It has been especially present since the broom-star passed, and the world changed. I am certain of it: you will be a king in this world.”
“But my grandfather is king.”
“Before the world changed that might have been true. But now he is gone, just as your world across the sea is gone. I have seen all the world that there is in a vision, and in that seeing there was no Britain, no Europe, no grandfather king.
“And because of that, you carry the aura of a king.”
Chapter 34
In short, they are Americans
New York
Navigating past the shallows off Sandy Hook was usually the most challenging part of the trip from Williamsburg to New York, but the captain of Wolf found the task calm and mundane after his recent journey.
Seas could be choppy or stormy. Any sailing man knew that and expected it: the weather in the Atlantic in late spring and early summer had its own dangers, not to mention ever-present rocks and tides and coastal shallows. But it was now clear that there were things out in the ocean that he’d never seen before, and Wolf’s captain nearly turned and headed for port a half dozen times. However, his passenger prevailed upon him to continue on each occasion, with a dignity and gravity that belied his years.
I have an urgent message for General Amherst, the young officer told him. The conduct of the war depends on it.
If Wolf were a ship in His Majesty’s Navy, the requests could well have been orders, with consequences for refusal. But it was a merchantman, making a regular trip from Virginia to New York, bearing hogsheads of tobacco and bales of cotton, and one young militia colonel with his urgent message that the captain believed was that important.
It took only a few minutes for the young colonel to walk from the dock on the East River to Fort George. It might have been appropriate to hire a carriage; but New York was full of people going in every direction, speaking very loudly and rapidly, and though he stood a head taller than most of them he felt himself lost in the crowd. The wasted time in arranging a carriage was more important than any potential increase in dignity derived from arriving in one.
Thus, he came to Fort George on foot, and presented himself to the sentinel. While he waited for admittance, four messengers rushed by, two in each direction, paying him no mind. At last he was admitted and conveyed to a large building that overlooked the courtyard.
A clerk led him to a broad room where two distinguished-looking officers were bent over a map. One was tall and slender; the other, more heavy-set, his head bent at a slight angle. They both looked up when the clerk said, “Colonel Richard Washington from Virginia.”
Washington stepped forward, tucked his uniform cap under his arm and offered a salute. There seemed to be little point in correcting the clerk regarding his name.
“Colonel,” the man with the crooked neck said, standing upright. “What brings you here?”
Washington stepped forward and offered a sealed envelope. The man nodded to the other, so Washington presented it to him. He took up a letter-opener, slit the edge of the envelope, and drew out the contents.
After looking briefly at it, he looked up. “This introduces a Colonel George Washington. I thought my clerk called you Richard.”
“George is my Christian name, sir,” Washington answered. “I thought it impolite to correct him directly.”
“Hmm.” The man—obviously Sir Jeffrey Amherst—set the letter on the table. “Colonel, may I introduce Admiral Edward Boscawen. Your letter indicates that you were sent here by Governor Dinwiddie. Acting Governor, I should say.”
“He thought you should be apprised of conditions in Virginia, General—my Lord,” Washington said, offering a respectful nod to Boscawen. “He felt that a personal report would carry more . . . ”
“Credibility,” Boscawen said. “Because he didn’t think we’d believe him.”
“Just so, my Lord. I have been fully informed on everything that has happened durin
g the last few months. I regret to say that we have no explanation for any of it.”
“We begin with information,” Amherst answered. “Before we search for causes, we must know what we face.”
“If I am not being too forward to ask,” Washington said, “what do we face?”
“We are at war, Colonel. Not just against the French, but against another enemy—something harder to identify and understand. But your effort, your bravery and your loyalty are required no less.”
“Of course, my Lord,” Washington answered. “Governor Dinwiddie directed me to remain at your service as long as you needed me.”
“It may be needed. We will call upon you when we are ready to receive your report.” Amherst waved at the door. “Consult with my clerk for a billet. Did you bring staff with you?”
“Only a servant, General.”
“Speak with my clerk.” Amherst looked down at the map, an indication that the interview was over. Washington saluted once more and departed, with Amherst ignoring him and Boscawen watching him go.
“Richard Washington,” Boscawen said when the young Virginian had departed. “That name—”
“George Washington.”
“I seem to recall that name from somewhere.”
“You should,” Amherst said. “He’s the man who started the war with the French.”
Boscawen nodded. “That’s right. Some battle in the wilds of—was it Pennsylvania? Almost five years ago, before things got hot on the continent.”
“Just so. But he also marched with Braddock and showed bravery at the Monongahela. I don’t think I’d put him in charge of an army, but he’s a good man, and may prove useful.”
On Queen Street above Hanover Square, there was a vacant townhouse that was already being called Admiralty House. It was a far cry from the facilities used by His Majesty’s Navy in London, but at present it was what the New World had to offer.