My Name Is a Knife

by Alix Hawley

  I want my Susy to stay home, as she is very close to her own time again now, but she does not like to. I go to look in on her in the evening where she sits sewing at her table. I say:

  —Come and rest in one of the tavern beds where I can keep my eye on you.

  She laughs and hauls herself up from the stump-chair:

  —Plenty of me to keep your eye on. You would do better to watch Becky, Ma.

  —Why—what has she done?

  Susy strokes her belly, and my mind goes at once to Isaac, the sweet-faced lonely boy seeking to tie himself to Daniel—but Susy sets down her needle and says quietly:

  —I saw her walking up the road with one of that big group who is staying. The one with the nice hair and the broken nose.

  I know just who she means. The nose has been broken more than once. The man drinks on and on quietly, always wanting the same table and tankard, his face going to mush under his wavy sand-coloured hair. He has shown no sign of leaving, though some of his company has gone already. Susy is looking at me with tired eyes. She has lines in her forehead now.

  —How many times, Susy?

  —A few. She cannot help herself, Ma. I never could.

  I will help things. I go up the buffalo road myself in the warm pink evening air. Has Becky made a Polly of herself, now that Polly is not here? She laughed and splashed in the creek in Carolina when Polly danced there half naked, not quite bold enough to do the same. Now she is fourteen, fifteen.

  It was Israel Polly was dancing for—

  I look at the road, full of white chips of rock. The dust covers me and makes me cough. I will have to change my apron before dinner. I walk quickly before the children see me from the river, and take it into their heads to follow. I go half a mile in my dusty cloud, faster and faster. I do not wish to be afraid. I am angry at the thought of fear. My heart goes into a flap under my stays. If I find them together—if I find him on her.

  Daniel is in the meadow he has fenced to the right of the road. He is breaking a horse someone traded him, a long-legged young chestnut, which keeps trying to crop the thick grasses, nearly throwing Daniel when he hauls its head up with the bridle. His face is set on winning, it is all he is thinking about. Isaac stands watching. His skin is pinker in the sunset, making him look even more a baby.

  —This one will be a runner, Isaac! Look at the pretty white stockings on those hind legs! Though she seems to think I have put a burr under her saddle.

  Daniel whips the horse’s head up. It rears beneath him, and he laughs and calls it a good girl. We will breed her, he says, stroking its ears to the tips.

  This talk of breeding—I cannot listen. I say to Isaac:

  —Have you seen Becky with any of the guests from the tavern walking out here?

  —No ma’am.

  Isaac always calls me ma’am, and reaches to tug at the hat he does not have. I touch his arm and look him in his light eyes. Their pink lids look tender:

  —Not anyone?

  Daniel rides close now:

  —What is it?

  —I was asking Isaac if he had seen Becky with one of the men from the tavern. The one who drinks too much.

  —More than enough of those! I have seen no one about, have you?

  —Susy says Becky has been with that broken-nosed man.

  Daniel’s mouth tightens, but he turns it into a small smile. The chestnut skates to the side and bends its forelegs. Daniel laughs and slaps its back:

  —Lively girls cannot be stopped. Can you, pretty?

  —For God’s sake, Daniel. Would you have your daughter run off with one of those travellers? You have seen how they live—she is fifteen—we can save her suffering.

  Daniel’s wild happiness snaps into rage. He says:

  —You cannot stop things, God cannot stop things! She will do as she likes, goddammit, or I will throw this horse and myself off a cliff.

  —There are no cliffs near here.

  —Oh you are very cool now, my lady, knowing all about this country as you do. You have all the answers, you know what is in store for everyone.

  —You have seen our other daughters with child too many times, and too young, and without homes—would you like never to see this one again?

  The horse bucks. Daniel stays on, his neck and hands turning to purple knots. He says:

  —She ought to be happy while she lives. I do not know what more I can do for her or any of them. I am getting them some good land.

  —While she lives? Daniel!

  —She is living! She is old enough to know what she wants!

  I will not say Israel’s name, or Jamesie’s. I look round again for Becky, but there is only Isaac swatting at flies, trying to look as if he is not listening. I say:

  —Do you think she wants land? Will that truly help her?

  Daniel is still tight with fury:

  —Yes, truly. I will get land for my children, dammit all.

  —That is all you want.

  —I do not want any more sadness, Rebecca. Why do you?

  He has halted something in himself, he has made it stop working. I see this as he digs his heels into the horse’s sides. This is how he is able to live. My throat aches with the kicked-up dust. I turn and go back towards the little settlement, swatting flies away from me and calling for Becky. I hear Isaac shuffling some way behind me. I know Daniel has sent him. I have not walked any distance alone for so long, perhaps it would not be possible for me to do it any longer. Perhaps I would fold up and vanish if I tried.

  I DO HAVE happinesses. My girls’ babies born safely into my hands. That scrap of my mother’s dress, though I never look at it. My daughter Jemima with me again too. I remember these things. I do remember, he cannot say I do not.

  At the tavern, I change my apron and clean my hands and face, and I give Isaac a cup of cool ale. He thanks me, but his thoughts are back at the pasture, and he keeps looking to the door. Daniel is like daylight to him and others, warming them and making them wish to live in it all the time. But it is not always daytime.

  —Isaac, will you go and see if Easter needs any more flour ground?

  He nods and trudges off. The children want their dinner, the guests want rum and whiskey—I look, but that broken-nosed man is not among them.

  When I am in the tavern cellar later, Becky comes down quietly, brushing her hands on her skirts. Her face is half guilty, half shut, as it used to look when she had broken the eggs or let the milk go rotten but could not admit it even to herself. I have to turn away, but I say:

  —You have made up your mind then, Becky.

  —Ma—

  —You do not have to explain yourself to me. Only be sure, as sure as you can be. This is not the only life for you.

  I look at her, and her face closes fully. She does not understand me. Perhaps I do not understand myself. Is there another life? I upend a barrel and say:

  —Help me get this upstairs.

  At this she is relieved and comes over to carry the cask herself. And soon Daniel presides over her marriage to that handsome broken-nosed man Philip in the tavern, blessing them and saying:

  —Philip was a friend to horses in the Bible, do I remember right? Good man, you can help us get the best of the horseflesh breeding here!

  He does not remember right, but Becky hugs her daddy, crushing the garland of daisies Levina made her, the last of the year. Philip shakes Daniel’s hand, looking as though he does not know quite where he is.

  They are all talking of horses’ gaits and shoulders, dancing and staggering and passing a jug, when there is a shot outside.

  Some of them do not hear or do not mind it, and carry on spinning. Daniel grips my arm. He says:

  —Over the river.

  —What?

  —That is where it came from.

  He pushes through the dancers and out the door, strange and tense as an animal, the way he was when he came to find us again in Carolina. He is more than drunken. I follow him. Becky sees us going but do
es not leave her Philip’s arms. The air from the river chills my face and neck. Daniel is in his good linen shirt from the wedding. It shines white in the water, where he is wading out and across before the next shot comes. He stands frozen. He does not have his gun.

  —Daniel, what are you doing?

  The music inside does not stop. I call louder:

  —Who is there?

  —Do you not know me?

  The voice is booming. Another shot flies. A horse whinnies, and our horses in the pasture behind begin to answer across the dark. Daniel crouches. Then he is running deeper into the river, sending up great splashes, crying out:

  —Kenton?

  The man riding in from the other side—I know him. Simon Kenton, a big young man from the fort.

  Daniel gasps:

  —Not dead! Not dead!

  —Not at all! Back again from an Indian holiday!

  Daniel is up to his thighs in the water. Kenton slides down from his horse, and they are laughing and grasping each other’s arms. Easter and Luce come out behind me, and Easter says in her resounding way:

  —That big man, is he a madman?

  Luce murmurs:

  —No more mad than the master.

  I do not scold her. Daniel is laughing so hard he cannot breathe.

  * * *

  These men, back from the dead, showing just how alive they are.

  Simon Kenton joins the dancing and tramps the bride around the room in his arms, so high her feet do not touch the floor. He takes a turn with Daniel, the two of them wet-legged and barefoot, leaping and scrabbling like cubs. Kenton has a great bald scar on one side of his head and a sore eye. All Daniel’s scars, most faded white now.

  Kenton yells:

  —We will be neighbours again! I am starting a station a few miles over. When I heard of Boone’s tavern, I had to see it! And here you are! The man himself!

  Kenton tugs at a thick hank of his hair and gives a clumsy bow. Daniel grabs him by his great jaw and says:

  —Well well, we are all starting again! How was your time with the Indians—Shawnee?

  Daniel’s eyes are careful. But Kenton only laughs and says:

  —Got me a Shawnee mother now! I do! Called me Cuttahotha!

  Daniel’s mouth slackens:

  —Cuttahotha, condemned?

  —That is right, ha! You see how much their names mean. Wait now, I have a gift.

  He goes out to his horse. Daniel’s eyes follow him, full of some sort of wish. Kenton comes back with a thin book under his arm, which he hands to Daniel with a broad grin:

  —You will have to spell it out for us all, sir.

  Daniel touches the cover. He reads aloud in a long breath:

  —The Discovery, Settlement and Present State of Kentucky. To which is added an appendix containing the adventures of Colonel Daniel Boone, comprehending every important occurrence.

  Now he looks round, a queer shine in his eyes. He has lost his smile. Kenton rubs at his swollen eye and sets to clapping, and Isaac soon follows, and so do the rest. The little ones still awake cover their ears and screech. I pick up Susy’s Swan and hold her tight. Already her legs are long and without their baby fat.

  Daniel sits down, silent. Kenton says:

  —This book is everywhere, did you not know? I am sorry I cannot read.

  —Then you did not write it.

  Kenton booms out a laugh:

  —Not me! Though I know the story already. Look, it is a real book, printed up nice.

  —Well well. Every important occurrence.

  Daniel is nearly trembling, as though he is held between happiness and terror. He holds the book too tight. He decides to believe it, I see him. He grins around the room and nods. His back loosens. Kenton cuffs his shoulder and says:

  —I am only sorry I have nothing for the new pair. I did not know it was a wedding day.

  He raises his tankard to Becky and Philip. Daniel says loudly now:

  —Well. I have other daughters yet. What do you say, Levina?

  Isaac, always near to Daniel, laughs. My poor shy girl rushes off down to the cellar. Daniel, do not tease, do not make things happen.

  But he has risen on his current of happiness, and has begun to sing. By chance a fine Kentucky girl, I happened for to see—

  * * *

  Susy has a boy this time, quickly and easily. She calls him Boone. Soon Jemima has her own next boy, and she is torn again, but she comes through. She calls him James Israel. I call both of them Baby.

  This book—does it talk of my girls? And my lost boys? I am glad I do not read enough to know.

  More and more travellers are coming, some with families, although it is late in the year. I deliver a poor country-Dutch woman before her time one night. The child lives, though she is as spindly and tiny as Jemima’s Sallie was when we first saw her at Boonesborough. I keep her by the fire and feed her some of Susy’s milk soaked into a cloth. The woman is poorly and has to stay at the tavern for weeks. She says they cannot pay, and frets herself about it. I tell her it is no matter, but when her husband insists they go on to get Kentucky land before it is all gone, she pushes a set of silver spoons into my hands and will not take them back. You have, she says, and puts her hands behind her back. I can see they are her own by the way she stares at them. They are curious old things, prettier than I have ever seen, with tiny oak leaves patterned into the handles. I wonder if the woman ever thinks of them again and wishes she had them back.

  Many of the people have copies of the book with them. Some of them cannot read a word, but they have it, calling it the Boone Book, or the Book of Daniel Boone. Some ask if he knows it, and he begins to enjoy telling them he is the very man it talks of. He widens his eyes when he does, he loves to see their surprise.

  He goes back and forth with Simon Kenton, talking of horses and land, settling again into his skin, though I do not think he knows what his skin is truly like now. His back and ankle are often stiff, but he still walks with strides too long, as though he were always trying to step over something.

  In October he is fifty. Living.

  Well well, do you believe it? I do not, he says, patting one of the babies’ cheeks, then his own. At the tavern Levina bakes him a cake of her own recipe, with some of the ginseng in it. He pronounces it the best cake he ever had. It will make me quite a lively man again, he says with a wink at me. Levina blushes fiercely, and Daniel passes slices around, saying it will make all of us lively, why not?

  Afterwards, Jesse and Nathan have him read some of the book aloud. He laughs, but he does so. And tells them it is a true book. Truer than Gulliver!

  I do not listen. I go to the boat cabin where we sleep still. There has been no time to build a proper house. When we have a house again I will make a bigger featherbed and new pillows. New sheets as well, when I can weave them.

  It is a dark cabin with small windows, and I bump into the little table Daniel built to fold up into the wall. He has left it open, and now his ink has spilled onto the floor. I bend to scoop up the horn, but I knock a book from the table as well. I throw a cloth over the ink puddle, and I take the book to the door to see what damage I have done it. But there is no ink spattered on the red cover. Only words. In the fading daylight I peer at it: Indan. Indian. Indian Book.

  No letters I know beyond the O. No X or S. I do not know the others well enough to be certain. The words are in his hand, but I will not ask him if this is what it says, and I will not have Jesse or Morgan read it to me. But inside is nothing, empty pages. The paper smells of nutshells, and is very smooth.

  Daniel—if you write your own life, will this be all you have to say about it? Your Indian life—

  I let the ink stain settle into the boards. I leave the book on the table. When I go outside, I hear someone strike up the fiddle in the tavern. He is a poor player, whoever he is. Someone else is banging a rhythm on a table. Not dark yet, and all this noise beginning. The evening will be busy. My leg throbs where I struck
the table, and my right hand is covered in small ink spots.

  And I hear it, a rustling in the grass over the water, a voice. Not English, not country Dutch. Another voice replying quietly. It is a soft voice, perhaps even a woman’s. I stop and look hard and listen for a long time, but there is only the fiddling and banging, the river and the wind in the grass. Who are you? Did you take away my sons? Do you know my husband?

  I KEEP WATCH whenever I am outside. I see no one in the grass or on the banks. Until a cold bright day, when the travellers’ dogs tied at the tavern begin a loud barking, straining at their tugs. A flatboat is coming down the river with men sitting on its deck, their hands tied before them. Kenton rides along the bank just behind it. Daniel is out waiting, his own hands held together in front of him. I can see he has expected this.

  The men are Indians. Some of them are very young, some in middle life. Some have their hair shaved except at the top. All look chilled and tired. Daniel pulls the boat in to the landing place upstream from where Easter and Luce and I are filling the wash kettles with my girls. The dogs go mad.

  —Here you are. How do.

  He says so to the officers on the boat. They pull the Indians to their feet and prod them off board. They are tied to one another by the waist. Daniel looks each one closely in the face as they come: How do, how do. I see his disappointment that he does not know any of them. Jemima beside me says in her sudden way:

  —What are they doing?

  Her young Sallie picks up a rock and hurls it. It splashes short of the boat. I take her little fists:

  —Hush.

  Susy says:

  —Ma, who are they?

  —Hush.

  I watch the men standing on the bank in complete stillness. Daniel has his red book with him, and sets to counting and writing in it. Indian Book.

  Waving towards the meadows, Kenton says to one of the officers:

  —You see this is a pretty place for prisoners. Dan here will keep them safe for you.

  The officer nods and says:

  —Colonel Boone. Captain Kenton.

  Daniel and Kenton nod back in a very military fashion. The girls and I watch them walk the Indians along the path to Will’s warehouse, where Will is waiting. Susy says: