Into the Wilderness

by Sara Donati

  What a terribly awkward thing it is to he English, Elizabeth thought, watching a young Kahnyen’kehàka woman heavy with child advancing with the shuffling step of the dance. All at once she realized how many others there were with a child on the way or one straddling a hip and another at the breast. She could manage this. She would have a child, Nathaniel’s child, and a life with him, and her work—Stone-Splitter’s voice drifted through her head and she answered it firmly. She would have her work, even if it was not what she had imagined it to be. She could be happy.

  I am happy. It was true, in spite of all that had happened. She was content, and suddenly she was not so worried about how to tell Nathaniel. The words would come, when the time and setting were appropriate. Perhaps tonight when they retired, or perhaps tomorrow. When she had grown used to the idea herself and made herself acquainted with the child, who appeared in her thoughts already as an infant; she could almost feel the weight of it in her arms. She tried again to count days, and failed. As best she understood these things, this child would come early in the new year. If all went well.

  She was jerked out of her daydream by Robbie, who materialized behind her.

  “Have ye need of a translator?” he asked quietly. “I thoucht ye might like tae ken what He-Who-Dreams has tae say.”

  Elizabeth nodded, glancing up and behind at Robbie. “Did you see—” she whispered, and he nodded.

  “I did.”

  He-Who-Dreams raised his voice, putting an end to their discussion.

  The lines of dancers kept time with the drum, a hundred feet in soft moccasins moving back and forth. There was the swoosh of long fringe and the clinking of beads and shells and silver ornaments. Many of the men wore knee bands sewn over and over with rattles made from deer hooves, and these set a steady pace.

  The sun had fallen to the horizon and hesitated there, the curve of its great belly resting on the edge of the world, bedded in a sky that melded from deep indigo to a pale lavender.

  “Welcome, Throws-Far,” He-Who-Dreams called, raising the ceremonial stick in his hand. “We welcome our brother who comes to us from the Caughnawaga—” He gestured. “He asks us in his brother’s name to offer up our songs so that Cat-Eater might heal and walk among us again.”

  The crowd parted and Throws-Far appeared, carrying a basket. A huge man, broad and layered with muscle, he bore more than the usual share of battle scars. Elizabeth was close enough to see the details of the tattooing on his face and head. He had painted his face in yellow and blue, four stripes to a cheek. But no manner of dress and no amount of ornament could hide his coloring, the pale skin that resisted tanning, the coppery hair and vivid blue eyes. Those eyes met hers and she saw his attention narrow to a hard focus. Elizabeth stepped involuntarily backward and closer to Robbie.

  The dancers were moving again. Spotted-Fox, Splitting-Moon, Otter, and then Nathaniel. As he passed, Elizabeth saw his attention was someplace far away.

  The singing grew louder and then stopped abruptly. She watched as He-Who-Dreams reached into the basket of gifts Throws-Far had brought, finding a highly decorated pouch, closed by a drawstring. He opened it and poured what was inside into his palm.

  “Great Spirit who gave us the night,” he chanted, as the last rays of the sun trembled and then were lost. On the other side of the sky, the moon rose, the color of an overripe peach.

  “Great Spirit who gave us the darkness in which to rest. In that darkness we send our words to you.”

  The tobacco crackled when he scattered it on the fire, smoke rising with a great whirl of sparks in a sweet, pungent eddy to the sky. The musicians’ song swelled, and receded, swelled again, hovered above the fire like a living thing, and fell silent.

  He-Who-Dreams thumped the ground with his stick.

  “Cat-Eater!” he summoned. And again, “Cat-Eater!”

  There was a rustling, a soft murmuring. Throws-Far watched, the firelight lending his face an animation which was not his own.

  Elizabeth swayed with a new wave of nausea, catching Robbie’s arm for support. Sweat broke out on her brow and trickled down her face. Her mouth filled with sour saliva.

  “Wha’ is it, lass?” Robbie whispered. “Are ye ill?”

  Richard came. He stood across the fire from his brother. Pale, so pale, slightly bent with one arm held at an awkward angle, supporting his weight on a stick. Behind him was She-Remembers, the clan mother of the Bear longhouse and the woman who had been nursing his injuries.

  The two men stood across from each other looking through the flames, like images in a distorted mirror.

  There was a fist high in her gut, forcing itself up into her gullet. Elizabeth turned away from the fire, stumbled out of the crowd, through the milling children, with both Robbie and Treenie behind her, making anxious noises. Past the place where Made-of-Bones’ great-granddaughters liked to grind corn in the mornings, past a skin stretched out on a frame, half scraped. The stink of the urine in which it had been cured struck her physically, and Elizabeth stumbled into the shadows beside the longhouse, where she paused, and let it happen. And happen again. And again. She braced herself with one arm against the longhouse wall and hung there, as miserable as she could ever remember being. Robbie had disappeared, but Treenie sat patiently, as if she had seen such behavior before, and expected to see it again. When Elizabeth looked at her, she thumped her tail sympathetically and offered a doglike shrug.

  “Here, lass,” Robbie said when he returned, holding out a water gourd. She filled her mouth and spat. Did that again, and then finally drank in small sips.

  “What hae ye been eatin’?” Robbie asked, shaking his head. “I should verra much like tae ken, so that I may stay far awa’ from it.”

  She gave him a weak grin, and drank again.

  “Lie ye doon,” Robbie suggested.

  Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, and glanced back toward the fire where the whole village stood, listening to a single voice. It was one she didn’t recognize, but which was very familiar, all the same. Richard, and his brother, and their Kahnyen’kehàka family around them. Now, standing outside of the light of the fire, it all seemed so very strange. She had come looking for a life different from the one she had in England, but this—

  Robbie’s hand was a gentle weight on her shoulder.

  “ ’Tis a verra curious thing tae stan’ betwixt worlds wi’ a foot in both,” he said.

  “I don’t belong there among them,” she said. “I feel as though I’m intruding on a family matter.”

  “But it’s his place, too, lass.”

  She didn’t have to ask for his meaning. Nathaniel was here, because some part of him belonged here. “ ‘Thy people shall be my people,’ ” she said softly.

  “Ooch, it’s guid tae hear ye quotin’,” said Robbie easily. “I see that ye are feelin’ mair yersel’.”

  Elizabeth laughed a little. “I’m feeling much better,” she agreed, and realized that it was true; the nausea had ebbed away.

  “Dinna ye think that a rest—” he began, but he drew up short. Curious, Elizabeth turned and found Splitting-Moon standing just a few paces off.

  “My grandmother asks that you come to her,” the young woman said.

  “Weel, then, lass, ye had best be goin’. Made-of-Bones doesna look kindly on disobedience.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Elizabeth muttered, starting off behind Splitting-Moon.

  The Bear and Wolf longhouses were identical in most details, a fact which set Elizabeth a little more at ease. Here, though, the clan mother’s hearth was shared with a husband, the sachem, who was still at the Stick Beating Dance. The lingering scent of his tobacco made a contrast to the herbs that were so prominent at Made-of-Bones’ hearth. She-Remembers seemed to be more involved in the making of the ornaments that so many wore, and the fine needlework that decorated the clothing. Bits of work in progress were piled everywhere, as were baskets of porcupine quills, shells, threads, and other things that Elizabeth coul
d not identify. There was time to see all this, because she and Splitting-Moon arrived first.

  While the younger woman fed the fire, bringing it up to a good blaze, Elizabeth examined a long row of feathered headdresses, picking up a half-finished one to look at it closely. The headpiece itself was an elongated cap of supple wooden splints interwoven and covered with the softest doeskin. This one did not yet have feathers, but it sat beside baskets full of them: eagle and turkey, which she recognized without too much trouble, some long ones which might have been feathers of the great blue cranes they saw so often on the waterways, crow and hawk.

  Splitting-Moon made a sound of welcome and Elizabeth looked up to see the bear pelt at the door pushed aside.

  She laid the headdress carefully down and stood, her hands folded in front of her. The three clan mothers came in first, followed by Richard, leaning heavily on his stick, and finally, thankfully, Nathaniel. He came to her immediately.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked, hooking one of her fingers with one of his own.

  She squeezed tight, and managed a small smile. “I am well enough,” she said. “We can talk about that later.” Elizabeth was vaguely aware of Splitting-Moon slipping through the doorway and away into the night.

  She-Remembers was a woman of perhaps fifty years, straight of back and very tall for her sex. Her left eye seemed to be blind, for there was an opaque cast to it and the lid hung slack. This was her hearth, and she spoke first, welcoming them all. She looked down the length of the corridor as if there were some message to be read in the shadows, and then she turned to Elizabeth.

  “Cat-Eater tells us that you first seemed ready to take him as your husband, but then left in the night with Wolf-Running-Fast. He says that you promised to bring the mountain we call Hidden Wolf to him when you married, and that he has been cheated of this land, which is rightfully his. He has made a suggestion to us, and asked us to consider it, but first we would hear your side of this matter.”

  Nathaniel had translated some of this for her, staring at Richard, who stood almost in the shadows. His face was haggard but his attention as clear and focused as a hungry bird of prey.

  She cleared her throat.

  “You will forgive me if I use French when Kahnyen’kehàka fails me—” Elizabeth looked each of the women in the eye. Two-Suns seemed to be quite young to be clan mother to the Turtle longhouse, but she had a serene air. She-Remembers had a more hesitant way about her, but there was nothing obviously hostile or unfriendly in her bearing or tone.

  But Made-of-Bones. The old woman stood watching her with drawn brow. She rubbed the fringe on her sleeve between her thumb and forefinger and squinted at Elizabeth, her head cocked hard to one side.

  Elizabeth said, “It is true that for some weeks I let Richard talk to me of marriage. But it is not true that I promised him anything, because I never intended to marry him. I told him so at least twice. But I followed my heart—and my conscience—and I took Nathaniel as my husband.” She paused, and met Richard’s eye. “I am well satisfied with him.”

  Made-of-Bones pushed the air out through her nose. Nathaniel squeezed Elizabeth’s hand, and she returned the pressure.

  “It is true that Hidden Wolf is now Nathaniel’s property, but that is only true because the laws of my people do not allow women to own property when they marry. I would not hand over what is mine simply because I am a woman, if not for the law.”

  Made-of-Bones snorted again, whether out of displeasure or agreement, it was not clear. Two-Suns spoke up in a surpringly hoarse voice.

  “The O’seronni call us backward,” she said. “They do not see themselves.”

  “It is not the Kahnyen’kehàka way,” agreed She-Remembers.

  “The O’seronni are a nation of fools,” pronounced Made-of-Bones with a dismissive chop of her hand. “Do you need to be reminded?” She considered Elizabeth for a moment, one corner of her mouth turned down. “Did you take anything from Cat-Eater which is his?”

  “No,” said Elizabeth slowly. “I have taken nothing of Richard’s.”

  His voice came, not unexpectedly. “Except my good name,” he said. He was feverish with agitation, sweat pearling on his brow.

  “You have your name,” she answered calmly. “And it is as good as ever it was.”

  “Enough,” said She-Remembers. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “By our law Cat-Eater has no claim to you or what is yours. My sisters will agree with me?” Two-Suns nodded quickly; Made-of-Bones responded with a jerk of her shoulders.

  “But we also cannot make any judgments based on your own laws, which are mysterious to us. We can only advise you.”

  Elizabeth felt Nathaniel relaxing beside her, but she could not do the same: the expectant look on Made-of-Bones’ face made her shift uneasily from one foot to the other.

  She-Remembers said, “Cat-Eater tells us if he cannot have the mountain, then he would claim the child of Sings-from-Books as his daughter.”

  Elizabeth grabbed onto Nathaniel’s arm. Her face inches from his, she watched all the color drain from him, felt the coil of his muscles. Her own knuckles were white where her hands gripped his forearm. “Nathaniel,” she hissed, shaking him. “Nathaniel!” He glanced down at her, his face ragged with anger. Seeing her distress, the wild look in his eyes eased just a bit.

  “She is not yours to claim,” he managed finally, in a voice that was almost his own.

  “I say she is,” said Richard.

  Elizabeth’s heart thundered so that her vision seemed to throb with it. Hannah. Only once had she ever heard Richard mention her name, on her first night in Paradise at her father’s Christmas party. He had looked at the little girl as if she were a stranger, and an uninteresting one at that: nothing more than a half-breed female child, and no good to the world.

  “You have no interest in Hannah’s welfare,” she said to Richard in English.

  Nathaniel said, “It is not about Hannah.” And looking at the clan mothers one by one, he said: “Cat-Eater is consumed by envy and will take from me whatever he can get.”

  Richard put his fist against his chest, so that the livid gash of his half-healed wound flared. “I take what is mine.”

  “Wait,” Elizabeth said, holding out both hands in a pleading motion. “Kahnyen’kehàka children belong to their mothers, is that not so? Then what claim could Richard possibly have?”

  “I would bring her here to her great-grandmother,” Richard said, looking at Made-of-Bones. “But she would be brought up in the knowledge that I am her father.”

  “You are not her father.” Nathaniel’s voice filled the long-house. “Sings-from-Books was my wife when she bore the child.”

  “Sings-from-Books put you aside and took another,” said Made-of-Bones.

  “Did he tell you that?” Nathaniel asked. “You believed him?”

  “My daughter Falling-Day told me that,” said Made-of-Bones. “I believed her.”

  Richard shot Nathaniel a triumphant look.

  A wave of nausea washed over Elizabeth, and she swallowed it back down, ruthlessly.

  “You cannot take the child from the home she knows and loves,” she said. “Away from her family.”

  “We are her family,” said Made-of-Bones. “Her grandmother and her uncle and aunt can come with her, and live here at the hearth where they belong.”

  Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed in Richard’s direction. When he spoke again, it was in English. “I see it now. You’ll give the old woman back her daughter and her daughter’s daughters, and then you’ve got the Kahnyen’kehàka out of Paradise. Do they know that’s what you want? To get the last of their people out of your sight? You claim her as your daughter.” Nathaniel’s mouth twisted in disgust. “If you could you would gladly kill every one of these people in their beds.”

  “That is not true,” Richard said, hoarsely.

  “You watched that happen before, at Barktown.”

  “What happened at Barktown was not my doin
g. If they believed that it was, I would be long dead.” There was no sign of emotion on Richard’s face, no movement at all, but every line in his body vibrated with tension. The clan mothers were watching him, but he seemed to have forgotten them. Elizabeth was suddenly struck with a memory of her brother, interrupted at cards when he had his last shilling on a wager, consumed by the game and his own desperation.

  Nathaniel said in Kahnyen’kehàka: “I don’t know what Falling-Day advised my wife, but I do know that Sings-from-Books never left my mother’s home or my hearth. I claim her child as my own in the Kahnyen’kehàka way, and according to the laws of the O’seronni. And I dare anyone here to prove otherwise.”

  “Wait,” said Made-of-Bones. She turned her attention to Elizabeth, poked at her with one broad finger. “Cat-Eater cannot take the child,” she said grudgingly, “but you could send her to us. You have told us of the ways of the O’seronni, who have taken your land from you and given it to a man because you chose him to lie with. You see our ways are not so simple-minded. Would you not have the child raised here, where she can learn to be a woman?”

  Elizabeth flushed with a new anger, looking into the old woman’s dark eyes. “I am a woman,” she said clearly. “And I have things to teach her.”

  “You cannot teach her to be Kahnyen’kehàka!” said Made-of-Bones.

  “That is for her grandmother and aunt to do,” Elizabeth agreed. “They are with her, too.” She drew in a sharp breath, and let it out. “It’s about that, isn’t it? Not so much about Hannah, but about getting your daughter back.”

  Made-of-Bones said, “I had a good man, and I bred him five sons and three daughters. Healthy, strong children. All of my sons died as warriors, in O’seronni wars. Two of my daughters are gone. One at the hands of Redcoats, while she was big with child. The other, the mother of Splitting-Moon, of the O’seronni spotted sickness. There were once many women at my hearth, but now there is only myself left in my line, and my granddaughter, Splitting-Moon. Can you not understand what it is to want my child and her children here, where they belong?” She looked at Elizabeth, and then at Nathaniel. Suddenly her face hardened, the corner of her mouth turned down. “Perhaps not,” she said, her voice dropping. “Perhaps you cannot imagine this. The loss of a child is a pain you will never know.”