Into the Wilderness

by Sara Donati

  She could not stand it, the way they looked at her. Her whole life she had seen this look in the eyes of men: when she had asked for a Latin tutor, and then for one who could teach her philosophy. When she had wanted to climb Ben Nevis with her cousin Merriweather and his friends. When she had offered to write extracts of her uncle’s library books. The day she had expressed her wish to leave England, and first spoke of teaching school. Now all of those things seemed so trivial compared to the task she had before her, and these men, who were stronger and braver and more honest than any she had ever known, they were looking at her with that same doubt she had borne for all of her life. Elizabeth looked Robbie in the eye, and she lifted her chin.

  “Let us go,” she said again.

  “Elizabeth, lass,” he said softly. “Ye can barely stand for weariness. Ye’re covered wi’ bruises that wad lay the toughest sodjer low. Ever’ bone in your face shines through, and I’d wager it wad be no job worth mentionin’ tae count your ribs, forbye. I hae no doot ye mean what ye say, for ye’ve the bluidy heart of a lion—”

  She began to interrupt him, but he squeezed her shoulder again and lowered his voice another tone.

  “Whate’er it is ye’ve got behind ye these few days on the trail, lass, it has left scars for all tae see, and others festerin’ deep inside—ye needna contradict me. I may be an auld man, but I’m no’ yet blinn. Pay me mind, lass. Ye mun hae a day’s rest, or there willna be a wife for Nathaniel tae come hame tae.”

  All the reasons they must move on, now, immediately, were clear and ordered in Elizabeth’s mind, but when she opened her mouth, something else entirely came out.

  “I cannot let him die alone and without me,” she said, looking between them. “I will not. Don’t you understand, both of you? I am responsible.”

  “Elizabeth,” Robbie said hoarsely. The tears in his eyes took her by surprise. Suddenly she was overcome by the urge to bury her face in his coat and weep until she was emptied of it all, all the weakness and doubt and softness inside of her. So she could get on with what she must do. She loved Robbie for his tears, but she could not indulge him, or herself

  Otter had been leaning against the wall, and he righted himself. “We’ll walk till noon,” he proposed. “And then make camp, if you’ll agree to rest then, until tomorrow morning.”

  She could see it on their faces: this was the best she could hope for. And without them, she could not find her way to Canada. “You think he is being cared for?” she asked finally.

  Otter nodded without hesitation. “Hen’en.” Yes.

  “Better by far wi’ the Kahnyen’kehàka than wi’ a Boston surgeon,” Robbie confirmed.

  “Until midday, then,” she agreed. And Elizabeth walked out of the shelter and the camp without a backward glance, glad to have Treenie beside her again, and these good men at her back.

  XXXIX

  Men, Elizabeth concluded, could be counted on to be childish and unreasonable at the most awkward times. They had been on the trail for almost a week, and now, less than two hours from the village where they hoped to find Nathaniel alive and well, they had decided to make camp where they stood. Without her approval and simply ignoring every argument she could muster. Her attempts at rational discussion were dismissed: Otter was tense and Robbie strangely uncommunicative. Elizabeth sat in front of the fire and brooded, cleaning her musket with a rough quickness that made Robbie wince openly.

  “I could go on alone,” she said when she could be still no longer. “I managed on my own in the bush for days, I’m sure I could manage two hours in terrain such as this.”

  There was no response. Surprised, Elizabeth looked up and saw Otter and Robbie approaching a man at the edge of their camp.

  He was Kahnyen’kehàka, and from the look of him, a scout. Of middle age, he was not overly tall but built as wide and strong as an oak. The man was dressed much as Otter was dressed, but he had more weapons on his person, and there was something else that made Elizabeth’s irritation and preoccupation wither away immediately: his scalp was shaved clean with the exception of a long shank of hair knotted at his crown, gleaming blue-black in the twilight, and trailing an ornament of turkey feathers. From the belt around his waist there was another set of feathers, these strangely matted and dull in color: dark and lighter browns, one shot with dirty silver streaks, another much paler, with a definite curl to the ends. Seeing them clearly, Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry with fear. In her lap, the musket felt awkward and heavy and completely useless.

  But he was Kahnyen’kehàka, she reminded herself. A cousin of some kind to Otter, without a doubt. And neither Robbie nor Otter appeared frightened. She could hear only snatches of their conversation, on her side of the fire, but the tone was calm. She had no wish to come closer, and the scout apparently did not find her of interest in the least: with a glance that took in every detail of the camp and rested only very briefly on her face, the man turned and left them without another sound.

  It took Elizabeth another minute to realize that this quiet and imposing stranger had accomplished something which had eluded her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked Otter, although she could see for herself that he was breaking camp.

  “The sachem sends word that they want us in the village now,” he answered.

  She stood, and watched them working for another few heartbeats. “They have been watching us?”

  Otter grinned at her, and she saw now that his tension had been replaced by relief and anticipation. “All day,” he confirmed.

  Later, Elizabeth promised herself, she would apologize to these men for her irritability and lack of observation. But at the moment she could not find the words. A thought occurred to her, but she had to clear her throat several times before she could make herself produce the question.

  “He is there?”

  “Aye, lassie,” said Robbie. “He is. Alive, and on the mend.”

  In the dark she had little sense of the village. First there were the fields with neat rows of young plants, and then a small corral, where a young boy stood sentry. Around him a number of dogs lifted themselves from the ground as if suspended by wires, propelled by a low growling. Treenie froze beside Elizabeth and met them with her own rumbling, the fur on her hackles rising. The boy spoke a short word and the village dogs collapsed again, their eyes keen and at odds with their obedience.

  They turned toward the center of the village, where the night was split open by a great fire, and a singing such as Elizabeth had never heard.

  “Stay close,” Robbie said softly.

  She nodded. The rush of her blood made her fingers jerk and tingle, the knot in her belly pulling tighter with every pulse and echo of the drums. Close against her thigh, the red dog’s trembling was like her own, rumbling up from the marrow, as if every bone had been hollowed out and filled with glassy shards of panic and agitation. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here. Almost, almost she could hear the voices singing what rang so persistently in her head: Nathaniel is here; Nathaniel is alive.

  There was sudden silence when they walked into the open area where the fire burned. Hands stilled on drums, and the dust settled slowly around the dancers’ feet. Elizabeth blinked hard as her eyes adjusted to it: the great leaping light that cast everyday browns and tans into a spectrum of golds, set off here and there with a splash of crimson or green. Around them perhaps two hundred pairs of dark eyes, waiting. Only the fire spoke now, with a crackle and low roar.

  A single figure came forward. He was wrapped in a blanket, and wore an elaborate headdress on his shaved scalp.

  “The sachem,” Robbie said quietly to Elizabeth. “Stone-Splitter, by name.”

  Of all the men, the sachem was the only one to wear a headdress which included the antlers of a deer. But even to Elizabeth it was clear that his authority did not come from his ornaments or by virtue of his age—there were older men—but from a singular intensity that brought him everyone’s attention. Now he was looking at Otter wi
th obvious pleasure and satisfaction.

  “We welcome our brother Tawine, who has been long absent from our fire, and we welcome our friend Yotsìtsyonta, who finally honors us with his company after so many years.” He spoke Kahnyen’kehàka, but in a slow, measured way that Elizabeth could follow, for the most part. The sachem paused, and Elizabeth felt his gaze on her, quizzical but reserved.

  “You are the wife of Nathaniel, whom we call Okwahorowakeka?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said, and then more loudly: “Hen’en.”

  “He is a good man, and our brother,” said the sachem, and there was a murmuring around the fire. “He has told us to expect you.”

  Elizabeth’s throat closed tight with this, the certain knowledge that he was alive. She nodded.

  Stone-Splitter said, “Tell us why you ran away and left your husband to die alone in the Endless Mountains.”

  Elizabeth looked to Otter, unsure if she had understood correctly. She saw by his face that she had.

  “I did not leave my husband to die,” she said, finding a voice that was stronger and louder than she expected. “I went only to fetch Robbie—Yotsìtsyonta.” She repeated his name in Kahnyen’kehàka. “I left to get help, so that Nathaniel would not die.”

  An old woman came forward, her tangled mass of bone, bead, and shell necklaces and ornaments rattling with each step. In spite of the great age which drained her face of flesh, she had eyes as bright and cutting as chips of obsidian against sand. She came close enough for Elizabeth to catch the smell of her, the sharp tang of sweat and dried herbs and tallow, bear grease and buckskin. And she saw distrust in her narrowed eyes, and dislike. Why this should be, Elizabeth did not know, but she drew in a breath to steady herself.

  The old woman was examining Elizabeth’s face openly.

  “You have been beaten,” she said. “Did you shoot a husband who raised a hand to you when you were disobedient, and then run, leaving him to the hungry ghosts who walk the forest?”

  “No!” Elizabeth felt Otter stirring beside her, and she turned to him. “I cannot say this in Kahnyen’kehàka,” she whispered. “Please translate for me. Tell them that Nathaniel never raised a hand to me in anger, and I did not run from him. I could not manage on my own,” she finished, cursing the way her voice trembled. “Tell them, please.”

  Her mind moved with preternatural slowness, one thought repeating itself again and again: that unless she answered these people to their satisfaction, Nathaniel would stay hidden from her. To admit she had shot him, even in error, was a chance she could not take. While Otter translated, she watched the faces around her, searching the crowd once again for a familiar or friendly face, and found none.

  “Irtakohsaks tells us a different story,” said the sachem.

  Irtakohsaks. Cat-Eater. Elizabeth started at this name. She had completely forgotten about Richard, and what he might say and do to gain his own ends. Beside her, Otter had come to life; she could feel him crackling with energy.

  When she met his eye, she saw how angry he was. “Ask them if my husband holds me responsible for his wounds.”

  Otter did this, but before he had finished the old woman’s voice rose shrilly.

  The sachem held up a hand to delay her. “He does not,” he answered, looking at Elizabeth rather than Otter. “It is Irtakohsaks who spoke to us of this.”

  Otter’s indignation burst out of him. “Irtakohsaks speaks lies,” he said. “Irtakohsaks was once a child of this fire, but he turned his back on the Kahnyen’kehàka long ago. He led the O’seronni soldiers to us and they murdered us in our beds. He bound Sky-Wound-Round like an animal and forced him to march. Would you take his word above the word of Wolf-Running-Fast, our brother, who accuses this woman of nothing? Irtakohsaks does not know this woman. He is not worthy to take this woman’s name in his mouth.”

  Amazed, Elizabeth listened as Robbie translated at a whisper beside her. She had not imagined Otter to be capable of such a speech, or thought of herself in such terms. Her impulse was to drop her head in embarrassment, but there was a stronger urge, too, one of self-preservation, and she kept her gaze firmly on the sachem, who gave Otter his whole attention.

  “My grandmother,” Otter continued. “My grandfather, my family. May I speak for this woman, who is my sister? I ask for this privilege because her husband, my brother, cannot speak for her.”

  “I can speak for myself,” Elizabeth muttered, but Robbie’s hand tightened on her shoulder, and she bit her lip.

  Otter glanced at Elizabeth. “Grandmother is right, Bone-in-Her-Back has been beaten. But not by our brother. She tells the truth: she was on her way to find help for her husband when she was attacked.”

  With the realization that Otter was about to tell the story that Elizabeth knew no words for, she felt her skin rise up in fear. “Please,” she said softly, but Otter ignored her.

  “To keep her from her errand, he beat her until she bled,” Otter said, his voice certain and strong. “And she killed him, with her own hands she killed him, in order to return to her husband.”

  “Did you see this?” asked the sachem. “Did you see her kill this man?”

  “No,” said Otter. “But I saw the man, and I saw what he did to her.”

  “Please,” said Elizabeth, no longer able to hold back. “Please, may I see him?” Robbie pulled her closer to him, hushed her softly. “Courage, lass,” he whispered. “Let the boy talk, for he does ye naucht but good.”

  “Onhka?” asked the old woman, her face creased with doubt. Who?

  “Lingo,” said Otter and with that single word, his agitation left him, flowed out and transferred itself to the entire crowd. The men pressed closer. One of them, wearing a headdress fashioned from the entire pelt and skull of a wolf, pushed to the front. His face was painted in great vertical stripes of red and white and in his eyes Elizabeth read doubt.

  “The man called Lingo is no man,” he said. “He is a ghost. He walks with the Windigo,” he concluded, and there was a sigh that rose up from the assembly like the sparks of the fire, disappearing into the night.

  “Sachem,” said Otter to Stone-Splitter. “He walks no longer. I have seen his blood on the ground.”

  The old woman raised her voice. “If our warriors have never been able to kill the ghost called Lingo,” she said, “then this white woman cannot have done such a thing. Unless she is Wataenneras.”

  Elizabeth did not know this word, but Robbie’s indrawn breath told her it was not good to be called such a thing.

  “She is no Wataenneras” Otter said. “Her medicine is good.”

  Elizabeth said, “Otter. Tell this woman, your grandmother, something that she knows already. Tell her that a woman’s righteous anger has its own magic.”

  Otter hesitated, and then did as she asked.

  In the old woman’s eyes there was a flickering.

  “Do you have proof of this?” Stone-Splitter asked.

  Without turning toward her, Otter said, “Show them.”

  Elizabeth stepped back, shaking her head. With one hand she clutched the front of her shirt.

  Robbie leaned toward her. “Ye mun show them proof o’ wha’ ye claim, lass, ’gin ye wish tae see Nathaniel. Ye’ve no’ convinced the woman, and withoot her word ye’ll get nae further.”

  But still, she hesitated. Somewhere in the shadowy long-houses Nathaniel lay, waiting for her. Within touching distance. Within calling distance. Could he hear this, what they said of her, what Otter had told? It did not matter, for by tomorrow he would hear it, if not from her, then from others. To claim her husband she must first claim Jack Lingo. For all eternity, he would belong to her as surely as Nathaniel did. They wanted to see evidence not only of Lingo’s death, but of her pride in this deed; they wanted Lingo’s scalp. She felt the point of his knife at her eye, and for a moment she truly wished she had it to show them.

  Elizabeth pulled the chain from her shirt and held up the coin between two fingers so that it flashed in
the firelight. When she could take her eyes away from that sight, she saw something on the old woman’s face which surprised her. A new and grudging respect, and something else, something in the way she drew back, and held herself. Perhaps it was envy, or perhaps fear.

  “She killed Lingo with his own rifle,” said Otter, holding this up, too, now that Elizabeth had made her claim. The barrel gleamed red-brown in the firelight. This is why Otter had insisted on taking it, as proof. Vous et nul autre. She could look at it, now, without her gorge rising.

  Otter said: “Bone-in-Her-Back has walked many days to find her husband. Will you take her to him now?”

  The old woman turned away from the fire. At a nod from the sachem, Elizabeth followed her, alone.

  There were three longhouses set at angles to each other. The great expanse of their curved and ribbed sides reminded Elizabeth of the skeleton of a whale she had seen on the shore off the New-York harbor, blazing white against a blue-green sea. Almost a year ago, that had been. She wondered at this, that it could be true.

  The old woman was hesitating before a bearskin door, watching Elizabeth.

  “I am Ohstyen’tohskon,” she said. “This is the longhouse of the Wolf, and I am Kanistenha here.” Clan mother.

  “I thank you for your help and your hospitality,” Elizabeth said, seeking the Kahnyen’kehàka words slowly. “I thank you for my husband’s health.”

  The old woman blinked at her. Elizabeth saw that she had not gained her trust, or her respect. But then none of that mattered, not at this moment.

  The singing and drums had begun again, so that inside the longhouse there was an underlying rhythm to the sounds of the night like a muted heartbeat. It was a warm evening, and only a few fires were lit in the long central aisle, casting enough light to see the raised platforms at the rear of each living area. Each of them was piled with bear pelts and furs of various kinds and on many of these there were sleeping children, their naked skin glowing softly. In the deep shadows, Elizabeth saw a young woman with a newborn child at her breast, its tiny fists curling into the soft flesh. The woman watched her with hooded eyes, as if she were nothing more than a dream.