Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

  “Stop berating him,” Shabnokis said. “It is as you said. He cannot help being as he is. There is too much white in him to change.”

  Corm leaned forward, making sure she could see into his eyes. “My heart”—he put his hand over his chest—“my heart is Anishinabeg All that I do is for the good of the Real People.”

  “Ahaw,” the squaw priest agreed softly. “I know. That is what the spirits say. But the dog turd who made the bargain with the priest from my lodge was a black robe. The highest of the black robes. I cannot change the truth to make it what you want to hear.”

  Corm started to get up. He needed to be alone, to think through this information. “Thank you. I will—”

  “Wait. There is something else.”

  “What else?”

  “Only two elkskins,” Bishkek warned. “Big ones, but only two.”

  “Two,” Shabnokis confirmed. “Anyway, this is for your bridge person son. The spirits have told me to tell him this: The one you are looking for, the squaw. She eats kokotni.”

  Cormac stared at her. Kokotni was alligator.

  “Why do you look so black and eat so little?” Bishkek demanded. “Is my daughter’s food no good in your belly?” More than half Corm’s portion of dried corn stewed with venison was uneaten.

  “Lashi’s food is fine, Father. My thoughts fill me up and leave no room for eating.”

  “A black robe, not a brown,” Bishkek said softly. “This is important?”

  “It means that for two years I have been watching the wrong priest.”

  The old man shrugged. “So now you can watch the right one. The spirits tell us things in their time, not ours. They do not make mistakes. Besides, it is good to know about the one you thought was a Huron, no? That too was something you did not know before.”

  “Yes. It is very good to know that. I had already figured out that when she said not all trees with red leaves were sumacs, she meant the brave might only be pretending to be a Huron, but now … It is better to have the whole story, not just a part.”

  “Ahaw. The Suckáuhock that Memetosia gave you, you still have it?” Bishkek nodded toward the medicine bag around Corm’s neck. “I see you still have the medicine bag with the Crane People’s symbols.”

  “Yes, but only one bead is left. Pileewa, the turkey.”

  “And the others?”

  “I have given them away. To the chiefs of different tribes.”

  “And are those gifts the reason it is said that in the pays d’en haut the Anishinabeg will accept no more war belts from Onontio?”

  “Perhaps.” Lashi had come to collect his uneaten food and she looked at him reproachfully. Corm murmured an apology.

  Bishkek waited until the squaw was gone before continuing. “And is your gift the reason they have the dying-without-skin illness in the pays d’en haut? Our own people and the Nipissing and Ottawa and Huron, they are all sick with this thing. Did the Súki beads bring them a curse?”

  “Co! The beads are from our past. They are a treasure, not a curse.” Corm realized that Bishkek had been puzzling over this question for some time. “The dying-without-skin disease, Father, is a white man’s disease. They call it smallpox. No one knows where it comes from, but—”

  “Sickness comes from the spirits. How can you be sure it was not your gift that—”

  “Father, smallpox can be passed to another person if he touches something that belonged to one who was already sick. I have heard it said that in the Fort called William Henry there were many soldiers sick with smallpox. And the Anishinabeg who fought there took scalps. So maybe—”

  “The scalps they won, honorably, in battle, that is what gives them the dying-without-skin disease?”

  “I think so. Ahaw.”

  Bishkek was silent for a long time. If your enemy could kill you even after he was dead and you took his scalp, what kind of a world would this be? This was the purpose of a bridge person, to explain one side to the other. Sometimes, though, he would rather not have the explanation. Some questions, he decided, are not just too big to answer, they are too big to ask. “Come, we will smoke. But not with the others yet.” The men of the village had gathered around a large fire and were passing a pipe. “Here first By ourselves.”

  Cormac watched the old man prepare a pipe and light it from the embers of Lashi’s cooking fire. Bishkek took the first deep puff, then passed the pipe to him. Corm drew the fragrant smoke into his mouth, held it, then exhaled in the rings that in the past had so amused the young boys of the village. “Tell me something,” Bishkek said, smiling when he saw the smoke shapes in the firelight. “What Shabnokis said about kokotni, what did she mean?”

  Ayi! He should have known the old man wouldn’t let that pass without comment. “I knew a woman. I have been looking for her. I think the squaw priest was trying to tell me where she is.”

  “This kokotni, it is a beast I have heard about, but I have never seen it.”

  “It is a fierce thing that lives in the rivers far south of here. I’ve never seen it either,” Corm admitted. “Only heard stories.”

  “And this woman, is she a squaw or a white woman?”

  “White.” He would not lie to the old man, though he knew how much Bishkek hoped his manhood sons would choose squaws as wives and bring them to live in Singing Snow.

  “She must be very brave if she eats this fierce beast.”

  “Or very hungry.” Corm smoked, then looked over at the others who sat, and smoked and spoke of better things. He could hear the laughter. “The youngest son of my sister Lashi, I wish to send him on a journey.”

  Bishkek turned and looked for the boy called Pondise, Winter, because he had been bom in the moon of No Sun. “How long a journey? He has only just passed to manhood.”

  “It is a far way,” Corm admitted. “He will be gone for two moons, perhaps. But if he is clever, it won’t be dangerous. I cannot do it myself because I must return to Québec and see if I can learn more about the black robe.”

  “Pondise is very clever. And he often hunts alone, going a far distance, and always returns with a kill. But you must speak with his manhood father if you wish to send him away. I do not have authority over him any longer.”

  In the end it was decided; Pondise would go on the journey the bridge person wished him to take. Corm could see how excited the young man was at the prospect, even though he tried hard to look grown-up and impassive. “If you succeed in this thing it will be good for all the Anishinabeg,” Corm promised. Pondise did not say anything, but he stood very tall.

  The next day Corm took Pondise to the edge of the village and spent a long time telling him what he must do and how he was to do it. He drew maps indicating the location of New York City and how Pondise would get there. And they discussed how he would protect himself in that great city of the Cmokmanuk. Finally Corm wrote a note on a strip of bark and put it in a medicine bag he hung around the boy’s neck. “Only to Kwashko,” he cautioned. “You must give the message to no one else.”

  There were no clouds that day, but when the sun was as high as it got in this Leaf Falling Moon, Bishkek came to where Cormac and Pondise spoke, looking agitated. “Have you not finished yet? My bridge person son must leave. You told me you had to get to Québec, to find out about the black robe. Why are you still here?”

  “I thought tomorrow—” Corm began.

  “Co! Not tomorrow, now. Go. I am your manhood father, do you openly disobey me?”

  Corm had no idea why the old man was so agitated, but he knew that somehow his presence was the cause. “I will leave as soon as I have eaten, Father.”

  Bishkek looked up at the sun and nodded agreement.

  The clouds rolled in while they ate the midday meal. Then came the squalling winds. The first snow fell just as Corm stood up to go. Bishkek saw two flakes catch in the eyelashes of his bridge person son as they said goodbye. He watched Corm walk away, and only when he could see him no longer did a tear escape and make its w
ay down his seamed old cheek.

  His dream had been very explicit: If here in this village the snow falls on the child of Pohantis, you will never again see him alive.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1757

  NEW YORK CITY

  THE FRIGATES OF Loudoun’s failed expedition to Louisbourg flanked either side of the entrance to the outer harbor. The vessels rode at anchor, every sale furled, nonetheless they took a considerable amount of wind. The two-masted schooner Catherine Rose had to trim canvas and tack repeatedly to navigate the channel. Devil it matters, the schooner’s captain thought. The tide’s behind me, the sun bright gold overhead, and the ocean’s like a turquoise bauble in the belly of a honey-skinned whore. “’Tis a fine day to come home, I warrant, Mr. Hale,” he called out.

  His only paying passenger leaned on the forrard rail, eyes fastened on the oncoming shore. “A fine day indeed, Captain,” Quent called back. “Mighty fine. And my thanks for an equally fine voyage.”

  A remarkable voyage. They had not once seen a French flag. God bless the Royal Navy; they had virtually blockaded the entire Atlantic. And what the navy might miss, those legal pirates, the American privateers, did not. Thanks to them, the Catherine Rose had sailed home without incident, and both the captain and his passenger brought back the cargo they’d gone after.

  The schooner was laden with the finest goods London had to offer, and three men and five women who had given themselves into ten years’ bondage to pay their passage. The captain would sell them as indentured servants in New York for at least six times what it cost to bring them across the ocean. By long tradition the profit of that venture was his own. As for the hard goods, the silks and satins and fine furniture and kegs of port and malmsey, they would be offered at the Exchange. Four fifths of whatever return they made would be divided among the half dozen or so men who had formed the consortium that built his ship. Out of what remained he had to pay the crew and bear the cost of any necessary refit. Not to worry, he told himself again. He’d do well enough this time. What with the indentures and the extra thirty guineas the man they called the Red Bear had paid for passage, well enough indeed.

  Quent’s cargo was of a different sort, but he was equally satisfied. “A fine day,” he called out again though no one was paying him any attention.

  The crew were busy in the rigging, reefing still more sail, slowing the ship’s passage through the narrows and into the inner harbor. Quent heard the call, “Helmsman! Two degrees starboard!” and felt the almost immediate response as the Catherine Rose picked up a northeasterly tack and headed for the southern tip of Manhattan. Half an hour later he stood on West Dock with the city spread out in front of him—it didn’t look anywhere near as big or as important after nearly four months in London—waiting for his land legs to return, and trying to remember what direction he must take to get to the governor’s mansion.

  There was a crush on the dock, people coining and going. Still, compared to London, not much of a crowd. A man jostled his elbow and Quent moved aside. The man followed, tugging this time at the tails of Quent’s fine green velvet coat. He’d bought it before he sailed for London and worn it ever since. Indeed, he’d become so accustomed to the close fit of satin breeches he almost didn’t remember the feel of buckskin trousers.

  “Mr. Hale? ’Scuse me, sir. This be for you.”

  Quent took the folded slip of paper. Please allow Pipps to escort you to my home. It is a matter of some urgency. The note was signed B. D. Quent’s brow furrowed.

  “Bede Devrey,” the messenger offered helpfully. “Your uncle, sir.” He was a small ferret of a white man, probably an indenture, and barely reaching to Quent’s elbow. Two of his teeth were so elongated they looked like fangs.

  “I take it you’re Pipps?”

  “I am, sir.” The man looked around furtively. “It’s best if we move on, sir. There’s others might know you were on the Catherine Rose.”

  “Indeed. Does that matter?”

  “I think it does, sir. Your uncle gave me to understand it did, sir.”

  “Very well, let’s move on, then.”

  Pipps made a gesture toward Quent’s bag, but Quent hefted the canvas satchel before the other man could touch it. They headed toward an alley on the right. Quent sensed Pipps’ relief as they disappeared into its shadows.

  “Thank you for coming, Nephew.”

  “Your note said a matter of some urgency. My mother—”

  “My sister is well. She came to see me a fortnight past, and spent three days with us. It is John who has been ill.”

  Quent shrugged. No point in pretending concern for John’s health. Everyone knew the bad blood between them.

  “Your brother has lost the use of his left arm. He was ill of the wound for many weeks, but I’m told you have a clever herbalist at Shadowbrook who—”

  “Sally Robin. As clever an herbalist as can be found.”

  “That, it appears, is true. And fortunate for John. He will live, though as I said, with only one arm that’s any use to him.”

  “Thank you for informing me.” But that’s not why you plucked me off the dock like some special treasure, much less why my mother made one of her rare visits to her girlhood home. “May I ask how you knew I was on the Catherine Rose, Uncle? I didn’t think her to be a Devrey ship.”

  Bede chuckled. “She’s not, more’s the pity. But once you were on the water you were in my world, Nephew. It’s my business to know what’s afloat and where it’s headed.” They spoke in his office, on the ground floor of the grand Wall Street house built by his father, the slaver Will Devrey. The walls were hung with drawings of Devrey ships and the charts that tracked their passage. The fleet had grown to twenty-three vessels, and since his father’s death, Bede Devrey, the eldest son, owned the lot.

  “Yes, of course. But in that case … The governor is expecting me, sir. At least he is expecting that I will report straight to him the moment I return. If you knew I was to arrive, he must—”

  “It will be a cold day in hell, Nephew, when I don’t know more than James De Lancey about what an Atlantic tide will wash up on these shores. Now, let me get you a glass of something. Nancy will wait dinner until our business is done.” Apparently he still wasn’t prepared to say what that business might be. “Your voyage was untroubled?”

  “Entirely so. The Atlantic is ours.”

  “The shipping is safe enough these days. But here on land … Brandy, do you? Not too early in the day?”

  “Never too early for your fine brandy, Uncle. Thank you.”

  “Welcome indeed. Health, lad. And the family.” Both men lifted the bulbous glasses into which Bede had poured a generous portion of the pale gold spirit. The heady scent was as pleasurable as the first taste. Quent had been offered nothing as good in all his time in London.

  “Last of the French cognac in my cellar,” Bede commented after the first smooth sip. “And sad to say, there’s no hope of replenishing it until this damnable war’s done. That arrogant Scot, Loudoun … Can’t see why London leaves him here. The bugger sailed off to take Louisbourg in June, already too late if you ask me, and came back three months later empty-handed, with his tail between his legs.”

  Quent kept his face impassive. Loudoun was to be recalled—the letter informing James De Lancey of that fact was in his bag—but Quent said nothing. Not until he knew if this summons had to do with his uncle wanting information rather than having any to share. “The news about Louisbourg reached London just before I left. A shame.”

  “Worse. A disgrace. Meanwhile … I take it you heard as well about the massacre at Fort William Henry?”

  “I did.”

  “Well? What do you think of—”

  “Papa,” the door burst open. A young man stood there, tall and slim, with hair as red as Quent’s, proof that both were descended from the woman known as Red Bess, their great-aunt. “Papa, Mama wants to know how long you’ll be. So she knows about the
dinner.”

  “I see. And she sent you, not one of your sisters, to inquire?”

  “Actually, she sent Celeste, but—”

  “I thought that more likely.”

  “But I told her I’d go.”

  “Indeed.” Bede turned to his guest. “You’re the attraction, you realize. My children are bursting to get a look at the legendary Uko Nyakwai. You remember Samuel?”

  “Of course.” Quent stood and offered his hand. The boy shook it fiercely. This one was a twin, Quent reminded himself, though he looked nothing like his brother. And there were two little girls. At least they had been little when he last saw them. Must be young ladies now. “How are you, Sam?”

  “Well, thank you. Cousin Quentin, at dinner, will you tell us about the Indians? They say you know all the terrible things they do. And that you went to London to tell the government how we can make them pay for the massacre up at Fort William Henry. You’ll tell us all about it, won’t you?”

  “I left for London before that fort fell, Sam. And because the Indians are different from us doesn’t make them wrong and us right.”

  The boy’s eyes darkened. “But up at Lake George, they—”

  “It’s Bright Fish Water.” Quent couldn’t help himself. The thought that young men in New York City were learning to call a part of the Patent by a false name, along with all the other untruths they were raised on—that the tribes were heathen savages, never to be trusted, filthy—it grated on him. “That lake’s on Hale land. It’s always been called by the old Mahican name, Bright Fish Water.”

  “All the same, what I mean is that—”

  “Go away, Samuel.” Something had obviously changed Bede’s mood from indulgent father to head of the house. “Tell your mother I will inform her about dinner as soon as I can.”

  “But Papa, I only want to know if—”

  “Go!”

  The boy left, shutting the door behind him. Bede apologized for the interruption. “I’m not bothered,” Quent said. “Growing up in a big city like this, he must be curious about the rest of the province. Particularly knowing that the Patent is in the family. Maybe he—”