by Sara Donati
They had been walking uphill for what seemed like more than an hour when the wind picked up and began to blow, and just as suddenly, the sunlight flickered and faded, the clouds deepening in color to a deep gray-green. Hannah paused to look up, and then back toward Elizabeth.
“A storm,” Elizabeth said. “I hope it’s not much farther.”
“Lake in the Clouds,” Hannah responded and gestured with her chin.
“Lake in the Clouds?”
“This place,” Hannah explained. “The Kahnyen’kehàka name for it.”
The wooded ridge they had been following turned inward and then ended abruptly in a jumble of outcroppings, snowy evergreens, and granite slabs thrusting like splayed fingers out into the open air. This jutting shoulder of the mountain curved inward as if to protect the hidden glen Elizabeth now found before her.
A little breath of surprise and wonder left her in a warm rush. Roughly triangular in shape, the glen was about half a mile in length, and perhaps half a mile in breadth at the widest point. On one side cliffs rose up in a flat sheet of marbled gray rock; on the other, the mountain’s shoulder dropped away into the precipice. At the far end of the glen, a stream fell thirty feet from a fissure high on the rock face. It cascaded in an icy rush over a clutch of boulders and then fell again into a gorge that ran the length of the glen to narrow and disappear in the forest. From where they stood, Elizabeth could see the waters boiling lazily in a deep pool encased in ribbons of ice.
On one side, the banks of the gorge were built of layers of stone slabs like steps, which leveled into a series of terraces at the broadest point of the vale. There, in a grove of beech, pine, and blue spruce, a log cabin stood with its front porch facing the waterfall. It was low and solid, built in an L-shape, its deep roof scalloped with snow and dripping thick fingers of ice. Smoke curled above two massive fieldstone chimneys; lamplight glowed warmly from cracks in the shutters.
Snow began to fall in thick waves, large flakes twirling in the last of the light, disappearing into the trees and melting into the rushing water. As if in response, the door of the cabin opened and cast a slanted rectangle of butter-yellow light into the growing dark.
He wasn’t there; she sensed his absence as clearly as she took in woodsmoke, tallow candles, dried apples, roasting turkey, and the strong smells of animal skins, bear grease, and human beings. Elizabeth blinked at the brightness of firelight reflected in wood and the glowing colors of the room.
Hawkeye seemed to be everywhere at once, setting Hannah a series of quick chores, calling out questions, and making Elizabeth reacquainted with Chingachgook. The old man greeted Elizabeth cheerfully from his chair by the fire. Around his shoulders was a blanket woven in geometric patterns in red, white, and gray. Still a little breathless, Elizabeth accepted the chair across from him.
“The storm came up fast,” Chingachgook said.
Hawkeye nodded. “Good thing you two made tracks.”
Elizabeth held her hands out toward the fire and smiled at him. “I expect your stories are worth a bit of a walk.”
He laughed. “Well, I like to think they are. But if not, then Falling-Day will put a meal on the table that should make up for the trouble. Here she is, and Many-Doves with her.”
Anyone would know them for mother and daughter. Identical in height, slender but wiry, Falling-Day was a sparser, more compact version of Many-Doves. There were twistings of gray in the long braids that hung over her shoulders, and fans of deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but she moved like a younger woman, and there was a quickness in her that made her stand out; she reminded Elizabeth of her aunt Merriweather.
It was the smile that drew the final link: Falling-Day’s resemblance to Hannah was unmistakable. Nathaniel’s mother-in-law, then, and the younger woman—perhaps twenty years old—his wife’s sister. Many-Doves’ face was less guarded than her mother’s; curiosity and wariness, hope and caution, were all there, in quick succession. Elizabeth could not remember ever seeing a young woman for whom nature had done more. There was an elegance to her bearing that was outdone only by the perfect proportions of her face, and the fine set of her eyes.
Elizabeth murmured things she thought she should say, and took their hands in turn, trying not to stare at the younger woman.
“You can call me Abigail, if you prefer,” said Many-Doves. She took Elizabeth’s hand firmly and met her eyes without flinching.
“Don’t let Otter hear you do it, though,” said Hannah, who had come up behind Elizabeth. “He won’t like it.”
“It’s my name and not Otter’s,” said Many-Doves. “And it’s none of your business, either.” She added something in Kahnyen’kehàka that made Hannah wrinkle her nose in protest.
“Enough,” said Chingachgook behind them in strong tones. “Speak English now, or you’ll offend our guest.” In the firelight Elizabeth noted how his tattoos seemed to flicker and move: a snake wound its way across the bony protrusions of his cheekbones, over the bridge of his nose, and around one eye to his forehead, where it disappeared into the sparse white hair at his temple. She wondered if Nathaniel was tattooed, as well, and then put this thought away.
It seemed for a moment as though Many-Doves would take offense: a flurry of irritation flitted across her face. But then she smiled reluctantly and turned to follow her mother into the next room, with Hannah in tow.
“Might I help?” Elizabeth called after her, but Many-Doves fluttered a hand behind her in a gesture of dismissal, and Elizabeth turned back to the men. Hawkeye had taken up a stool and was oiling a trap with a feather dipped in a strong-smelling grease; Chingachgook was braiding leather strips. Elizabeth looked around, self-conscious in her curiosity but unable to do otherwise. She found herself in a large common room, dominated by the hearth at one end, the other extreme lost in shadows. Every inch of space was dedicated to some purpose. On a large table stacked with all manner of equipment for the casting of bullets and gun-cleaning, a trap had been taken apart. Under a shuttered window, another table dominated by a large oil lamp was covered with papers and books. Bookcases stood to either side. The corners were lined with barrels of various sizes, a churn, stretching panels, a spinning wheel, and a small loom. Pelts were tacked on the walls and piled in the corners: Elizabeth recognized fox, and the great tawny fur of what she took to be a panther, and another, darker one of a small bear. Set up in a neat row, furs dried inside out stretched over individual boards. Hawkeye kept up a running commentary and told her what she wanted to know: the reddish-brown pelts were marten, the luxuriant dark ones, fisher.
In the center of the room there were rocking chairs and stools and a long board flanked by benches, set for a meal. From the rafters hung corn by braided husks, squashes strung together like outlandish necklaces, wild onions, apples, and great bundles of dried greenery and herbs Elizabeth could not begin to name.
On the mantelpiece there was a basket of sewing, and one of beadwork. Elizabeth picked up the volumes she found there one by one: Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year, a thumbed newsprint copy of the Declaration of the Rights of Man in the original French, and even more surprising, a volume of poetry by Robert Burns.
“She was a great reader,” Hawkeye said behind Elizabeth. He came up behind her to touch a small painting of a woman in an oval frame.
“I see that,” Elizabeth said. “But I wonder how she managed to get this—” She picked up the Burns. “I wouldn’t have thought that he could have come so far. Most people in England aren’t familiar with this poet at all.”
“Won’t give him the time of day, you mean,” Hawkeye corrected her, but with a smile. “The upstart, the scallywag. Ain’t that what you’re thinking?”
“Well …” Elizabeth put the volume back down again. “He is a bit … incendiary. How did your wife come by these volumes? And these others—”
“She was a Scot, and they stick together like their confounded porridge. Hardly a traveler ever came through Paradise fr
om outwards without a parcel for Cora from somebody, and half the time it was books.”
Elizabeth went up on tiptoe to look at the painting more closely. Hawkeye put the portrait into her hands. It was simply drawn, but a strong sense of the woman was caught in it. She had a clear, high brow, dark hair, and hazel eyes. “Nathaniel has his mother’s coloring.”
“And he’s as quick as she was, and just as stubborn.”
“With definite dislikes,” agreed Elizabeth.
Chingachgook spoke up, his face creasing into a smile so thoroughly wrinkled that his eyes disappeared. “My daughter-in-law didn’t like the English much.”
“But she made an exception in your son’s case,” Elizabeth noted to him. Both men looked surprised at this, and then Hawkeye laughed, as if the idea of calling himself an Englishman was something that would never have occurred to him.
“Or are you Scots, too?” she amended. “I expect your name can be traced back to the Normans, in either case.”
“I was born in these mountains.”
“But your parents must have come from England?”
“I was given to understand they came from the far north of England,” Hawkeye said slowly. “But I don’t remember them. I’m a son of the Mahicans.”
Elizabeth was suddenly aware of Chingachgook, and she realized her mistake. “Of course,” she murmured.
“I never knew any other kin,” Hawkeye continued. “I didn’t have any English until I was ten, and I don’t suppose I knew I was white, either. Still comes as a shock, sometimes.”
Hawkeye dusted the carved frame with his shirtsleeve.
“How did you meet her?”
“Her da was a colonel assigned to Albany. She followed him to the Mohawk Valley. We helped her out of a fix or two, back in ’57.”
“That must have been the war with France.”
Chingachgook had been silent, but he spoke up, his voice hoarse. “Most of our wars have been with the English or the French, or against them. We don’t much have the energy to fight among ourselves anymore.”
Elizabeth was beginning to see why these people would want to buy Hidden Wolf Mountain from her father. For all of their lives, and the lives of their parents and possibly their grandparents before them, they had known nothing but war and sorrow, and most of that at the hands of the English. A place of their own, the opportunity to live as they must, from the land, with a degree of security they had never known: it seemed very reasonable to her.
The door flew open with a bang, and two dogs galloped into the room, tongues lolling. Behind them, a young Indian materialized in a swirl of snow and cold air, blood trickling from a wound on his forehead. He stood in the door, legs spread, raised his rifle high, put back his head, and let out a whoop that echoed through the room and made Elizabeth jump.
“Otter!” Hawkeye strode across the room. “You’ll scare Miz Elizabeth to death, she’ll think you’re after her scalp.”
But Elizabeth had already collected herself and stood before the hearth with what she hoped was a calm air, although she could feel her heart racing. She had seen, almost immediately, that the high-pitched yip was one of satisfaction and pride.
“You got the moose!” Hannah had rushed in from the other room with Falling-Day and Many-Doves close behind.
Otter laughed and tugged at Hannah’s braids. “Saw the tracks, did you? Nathaniel got him.”
“Did you forget about your rifle and butt him with that hard head of yours?” asked Many-Doves.
Falling-Day made an attempt to examine Otter’s wound, but he waved her away impatiently, muttering at her in Kahnyen’kehàka. Then he caught sight of Elizabeth, and stopped suddenly. A guarded look passed over his face, to be replaced, slowly, by a more open and friendly one as Hawkeye made his introduction.
Otter crossed the room, speaking in a low voice to the dogs, who were sniffing at Elizabeth’s skirts distrustfully. They fell into a heap in front of the fire with a great show of sheepish yawns.
Otter’s hand was chilled through, rough and not especially clean, but Elizabeth took it without hesitation and made a determined effort not to wipe it on her handkerchief once he had let it go. He was well grown; Elizabeth judged him as tall as Nathaniel, because she had to look up at him in the same way. His side hair was caught up in a plait secured with rawhide and studded with a single feather. Elizabeth remembered vaguely seeing drawings of young warriors, but Otter did not look at all like those representations: his head was not shaved in whole or part, and there was not a bit of paint on his face. He had the same deep bronze coloring as his sister and mother, but his dark eyes were much more animated, and less guarded.
Hannah tugged impatiently at Otter, pestering him for details of the hunt.
“You’re the one Nathaniel is building the schoolhouse for,” he said to Elizabeth, ignoring his niece. “Maybe you can teach this nosey one here some manners.” And he laughed and dodged as Hannah swiped at his ear.
The adults stood laughing as Otter and Hannah wrestled. Their high spirits were infectious; Elizabeth began to feel more relaxed than she had since Hannah had come to fetch her. Then she looked up and saw Nathaniel standing across the room in the open door.
He smiled at her; her heart gave a sudden lurch, and then settled into a new rhythm.
· · ·
Elizabeth found she had a ferocious appetite, and she concentrated on her food: there was the turkey, which had been roasted over the hearth, squash, onions and beans baked in molasses, and corn bread.
She was surprised to find that there was no pressure to converse at the table, and no awkward silences in the place of chatter. Otter told of trailing the moose through snowdrifts until it was exhausted enough to give up and stand still long enough to be shot. Elizabeth was very grateful that they did not expect her to talk; she knew that the thoughts that ran through her head like a chant were not things she could say out loud. Nathaniel sat across from her; she felt his eyes on her, although she could not meet his. Why do you watch me from the woods?
He broke bread; she watched his hands, the long fingers, the muscled forearms.
Then Many-Doves rose from the table to refill a bowl. Elizabeth looked up and saw her sleeve brush Nathaniel’s shoulder as she set more beans in front of him; he murmured something and she laughed out loud. The look on Many-Doves’ face was familiar to Elizabeth; if she looked in a mirror, she thought she would see the same flushed smile. Stricken, she looked down at her plate.
“I have plans for the school to show you,” Nathaniel said to Elizabeth after some time.
“Good,” she said. “Splendid.”
“There’s no hurry,” Hawkeye said. “You’ve got all evening.”
Elizabeth looked up, surprised. “But my father will be expecting me—”
“You’re not going down the mountainside in this storm,” said Nathaniel. “We’ll take you home tomorrow.” The howling of the wind picked up as if to agree with him.
“You look grieved,” said Otter. “You worried about your reputation?”
As wretched and agitated as Elizabeth was, this still startled her. “Why should I worry about my reputation? It’s not as though—” She looked up at Nathaniel and broke off.
Falling-Day rarely spoke, but now she sent her son a withering look. “Impudent,” she said. “She’s worried that the judge will be feared for her.”
“You’re safe here with us,” Nathaniel said. “The judge knows that.”
“She can read to us!” Hannah cried out. “Like Granny used to. Would you?”
“Why, that’s a fine idea,” said Hawkeye, clearly pleased.
Elizabeth looked around the table. Falling-Day, Many-Doves, and Chingachgook wore the same placid expression. Elizabeth wasn’t sure how to interpret it, although she thought it wasn’t directly disapproving.
Otter was grinning. “We’ll make her sing for her supper yet.”
She dared not seek out Nathaniel, and so Elizabeth began to gather the
dishes together. “I’d be pleased to read.”
“First there’s apple grunt,” said Falling-Day. “And then there’s a moose to be hung. Then there’s time for play.” And she sent Elizabeth a rare smile.
When she could stand it no longer, Elizabeth lifted her head and found Nathaniel’s calm gaze on her. She was relieved to see no pity there, but perhaps some sympathy, and a friendly openness that gave her great relief. Whatever his relationship to Many-Doves, there was some room for her here, she thought. If she could just stop dreaming of kisses that would never come.
“We’ll sit down with those plans,” he said. “After the apple grunt.”
With a nod, Elizabeth busied herself with clearing the table. “Comfort me with apples,” she muttered softly to herself.
“You are fond of quoting the Bible,” Nathaniel noted dryly, and Elizabeth jumped so that the wooden dish in her hands clattered to the floor. She had not realized he was so close. Her heart was beating so that she thought at first she’d misunderstood him. Then she knew that she had not.
Bending down to retrieve the dish, his hair falling forward to brush the floor, Nathaniel had finished the verse for her in a soft voice: “For I am sick of love.”
IX
Nathaniel made it his business to see that Otter went with the older men to the barn to skin and clean the moose and hoist the carcass into a tree, where it would be safe from scavengers. He sent Hannah into the kitchen with Falling-Day and Many-Doves to wipe dishes. When they finally had the great room to themselves, he cleared the table and spread out a large sheet of paper, using small stones to hold it down at the corners.
Elizabeth stood off to the side, her fingers working in the fabric of her skirt, her head inclined, considering him. He had the advantage, he knew that: everything she felt made itself known on her face, in the tension of her shoulders. When he gestured to the bench, she sidled over as if he were a dog known to bite.
But the plans intrigued her; once she had settled over them, she lost some of the terrible drawn look that had come over her face when he spoke to Many-Doves. She had no cause to be jealous of his wife’s sister, but he didn’t tell her that straightaway. Nathaniel liked the idea of her being jealous; it gave him some hope.