All True Not a Lie in It

by Alix Hawley

  I hardly hear her now, the blood continues to bang in my ears but more softly. I am still, still.

  You might run also.

  The words sing clear in my ear. My feet are near frozen. They say: Move us, we are dead.

  Death is creeping up from my shoes. The thought of it makes me stagger. I drag myself over the fallen tree into the wider dark. Here on the other side I stand. A rustling like bodies made of leaves coming to life. No pretence that I am alone. We all have our parts now, we all of us know it.

  One of them slips off in the horse’s direction, three are running easily through the trees alongside the trail towards me. I know that they are faster than I, I feel their swiftness cutting the shadow. And now at last I move, my dead feet land again and again in the powdery snow, my joints begin to loosen and my lungs to open. My breathing is rough. Run.

  A shot rips through the quiet. I picture my tired heart raining its last blood down my body.

  But no. The one who has the gun drops back, but another is not far behind me, still running. I push on but I am pinched between a rock-fall and another fallen tree, its roots splayed upward and its branches tangled in the rough cane, and so into the stiff canebrake I crash. It is like loving a porcupine as I imagine, my face and hands are stabbed variously, but I push on. I step down onto creek ice—my foot goes through. I pull my leg up and limp along wishing for youth, though forty-four is not so old, is it?

  I keep limping. The shots skip past, snow sprays up on each side, dashing me with white. Out of the cane, I find the trail again and I pound on in my frozen shoe. My gun slips in my greasy hands. They are all behind me. Do not think.

  A black fall of powder showers the snow, my horn falls empty with a dead thud. The strap flaps loose, shot through, over my chest. It is a work of beauty. The echo of the shot is quick and close. I am near laughing. They are doing this for sport. They are all murderers. My feet crunch and grind as if in salt, and the thought of salt slows me. The Blue Licks are not so far, I might reach the camp, it is not impossible. I might go on.

  I do not go on. My legs sink behind a thick bent pine. The bark is hard through my shirt and against the back of my skull. I see the tree eating me whole, taking me into itself. I see my bones and blood becoming wood and sap and my eyes becoming knots. This I will be for ever. Jamesie my boy, murdered in the woods such a long time ago, will this be the way I find you again?

  But no, again no. I am miserably alive yet. My pulse stings in my hands. I open my eyes, I still have my rifle, the long weight of it a surprise. I unclench my fists from round it. I hold it out, I wave and throw it. They will see it or its shadow on the pale ground.

  Their steps slow before they get to me. They are leisurely as the winter creek and the snow falling, piling itself into drifts and turning the whole world soft and unreadable.

  I have been looking for murderers. My boy’s murderers. These murderers and I have converged at this place. It seems that we have all been aiming for this bent tree for some time. My Fate set me on this trail and at last here I am.

  I am an unwilling murderer myself. Unwilling for the most part. Well, all of you, I am sorry.

  When they see me, I feel it. I stand to stretch my limbs. I step out. I smile my widest and I say:

  —How do. Remember me?

  I remember them. Even in the twilight I know one of the faces straight away, the friendly squint of the eyes and the red leggings with their tufts of deer hair. My guard, from my first time in Kentucky. Now he points to himself and tells me his name:

  —Aroas. How do.

  He grins as he takes my arm and leads me into the night, just as though we are old friends indeed.

  In the morning the snow is shin-deep and dry, my beard itches and my back sweats with the pace they keep me at. My shirt grows wet and then freezes and stiffens. When I have to stop for breath, they say Pasheteetha. Old man, in Shawnee. I laugh. I am curiously glad to feel my blood moving. I am curiously relieved to have been caught.

  Before we reach their encampment, I can see the long fire trench through the trees. There are plenty of them, more than a hundred.

  Aroas and my three other captors walk me in, they do not touch me now. The line of embers smoulders below the snow, the flames invisible against the day. All along it Indians sit and stand looking at me.

  Aroas points to the far end of the trench and nods. We walk up the line and Indians stare with surprise or interest or distaste. I look at every face in turn, but I do not see the one I would like to rip away and find what is really beneath. No Cherokee Jim. And these are not Cherokee.

  We reach the chiefs at the far end of the trench. They are wrapped in fine soft blankets. Their silver jewellery looks frosted over. They do not move at first. They survey me up and down for some time until one speaks to my captors. I do not understand all of the words, and I do not understand when they begin to confer with one another. Their talk is a short thread with knots of silence in it. They do not seem to have so very much to say.

  One gets to his feet, holding his blanket at the neck. He is not much taller than I am, and not much older. His eyes take my notice. They are like black rock, they are impossible. He holds his long hand out slightly. No knife, no gun. I square my bones and he takes my hand, which is cold and likely somewhat greasy still.

  The other chiefs are lesser than this first, they come forward in turn and do the same. Their faces are all impassive but interested. For a moment it is as though I were being courted at a frolic or a fancy dance, though the suitors do not wish to play their hands yet.

  I decide to speak first. I drag out my Shawnee, poor as it is:

  —Well. Great brothers.

  But no other words came to mind.

  The last of them gets up from the ground then, his blanket loose over his shoulders, his split ears purple with the cold. His face is weary. Surprise runs through me, and I say in English:

  —How do, Captain Will?

  My voice is too loud and my grin is too wide, as if my face has been taken over. But he smiles as well:

  —You say Captain Will to me?

  —I always did so.

  —Ha! Wide Mouth, ha ha!

  He keeps hold of my hand and I must say that I am pleased to be remembered. I say:

  —Many years since you took me last.

  —Then it is time again.

  —I suppose it is.

  —You and your big friend Bear. We had you.

  He cuffs my cheek and laughs again. My heart falls within me. I know that Stewart is dead. Whenever I see his face in my mind it is all angry and deaf and bewildered. I say:

  —My friend Stewart. Did you get him?

  The Captain laughs like a delighted child whose pet has come home after so many years gone. He says no more about Stewart, but he grips my arm harder. I find that I wish to tell him everything that has happened to me, I wish to offer it like a gift. But what a dreadful gift is this story. No gift at all.

  I close my mouth. His hand is tight upon me, I am a captive and a stranger. I keep my eyes on the thin rims of his stretched ears and the huge silver rings stiffening them. They look so cold.

  Some of the Shawnee warriors circle, curious about the talk and the handshaking. Two point and clap me on the back. One says:

  —Old Booney, ha. Wide Mouth.

  Then he pulls himself up straight and begins to sing “Over the Hills,” that is to say “Over the Hells.” I can hardly keep myself from weeping, so familiar a sound is it, so happy and so strange in its happiness. Captain Will says soft:

  —I told you to keep away.

  I try to clear my head. My eyes prick and sting. I pull myself up and I say:

  —You spoke of hornets when you left Stewart and me. I have seen none today.

  Someone is at my side, very close. A black man. He is full of a slow thick force like a pot on a low boil. A blue cloth is wrapped about his head, a deep blue that looks out of place here. And Findley, now I think of you, another lost
friend. You and all your trade things scattered about here in the wilderness. Are you living?

  This man lifts his chin. He stands before me silent at first, and I believe him a slave sent to kill me perhaps in some ceremonial fashion. Then he too begins to sing, only a little, in a high hushed voice, the same song. Over the hills and far away. His voice is beautiful. He intends me to take notice.

  I keep myself steady. Smooth your expression, dry up. A weird warmth goes through my chest and I am reminded of Martha, the troublesome appeal she has for me. Her thin nervous body. God help me but I can see it bare beneath me in my mind, I can feel the sharp bones of her hips. Now I think of you, Rebecca. And all the children, their faces wavering as if they were fish in a quick stream. I understand nothing. I stretch my fingers and then I clench them and I fix my face still.

  The chief with hard eyes speaks briefly to the black man, flicking a glance at me and opening his long hand once. Now the black man begins to interpret in an easy tone. He looks untroubled and indeed uninterested. He stands like a blind stone between us. With a jerk of his head, he says this chief is Black Fish. He is still stony but he is pleased to say this, as I can see.

  I have the curious swaying sensation of being about to drop into my grave. Both men are watching me. The black man says:

  —What are the men doing at the salt licks a day upriver?

  Still hovering, I am slow. I stretch my shoulders to my ears like a dunce and I say:

  —Are there men there?

  The black man sighs and blinks long as if on Black Fish’s behalf. The warriors began to shift, wondering what is afoot. Diversions are stupid, as I know. Out with it:

  —If so, they are my men. From my fort. Making salt.

  Black Fish looks in the direction of the river and speaks. The interpreter’s tone is still flat:

  —Tomorrow night no men will be left there. Nor their salt.

  I look at the chief’s face. It is entirely shut. Everyone has heard of his bloodiness. I study him.

  —Did he say that? Did you?

  I point, my finger stops an inch from the chief’s chest. I harden my eyes like his. Such are my first angry theatrics. Black Fish watches me with no expression. Then I say:

  —Would you not rather have me?

  I grin until my gums ache with cold. The chief looks back. His black eyes defeat me. I want him to respond. I keep my arm out until the elbow joint begins to throb. I think of Daddy’s stand at Meeting. Do not go bandy. I do not move.

  The chief speaks again to the black man, who says:

  —You are a head man. We know you are the big man here. You keep letting your people come into our territory. And so we are on our way to your fort.

  He shrugs in a loose fashion.

  My heart is too dead to quicken but it carries on, I cannot endure its carrying on. You already took my son, there is nothing left that you can take. Rip me to pieces and scatter them there and there, I will open my shirt to make it easy—

  All of this I think. But I do not speak and I do not move. I can only close my eyes and feel the tissue of the lids too weak and poor to shut out anything. The bumping of my heart stills. And when I look again, they are all watching me in silence once more. The black man has his head cocked now, awaiting an answer. I look at the snow, the white covering of it. I think of what is beneath it all over this country. Bones and more bones. Even bones of elephants. I go whiter and colder, thinking of more death.

  Now in pure coldness I say:

  —Would you not like to have a whole set of good men first? I can show you some closer than the fort. Less trouble.

  And so I sell us all.

  THE DAY IS colder. The white early sun flashes on the snow, which has the look of great heaps of glittering salt. If this were the truth, my men at the Blue Licks would be glad indeed. So would Rebecca. I think of her at the fort saying her blood craved salt, just as though it were full of little tongues. When I said she would sell me for a bag of it, and not a large bag, she laughed, but her eyes ran past me.

  I walk with my captors towards my men. I feel myself part of a mad play. The snow crunches, the sun strikes it blindingly. We crunch along all day, and the cold brightness does not lessen though the trees shade the light now and then.

  At the Blue Licks camp, the men are lolling on their blankets in the last of the day’s light. The river is too high, the spring water too diluted to give even a taste of salt now. Lying in the pool of light, the men look idle and content enough. Young Jimmy Callaway is usually watching carefully for any trouble so he might be proven right, like his uncle Dick. I am glad Colonel Dick is not here and that perhaps I will never have to see him again. But even young Callaway is lying back with his patched moccasins upon a stone, looking only into the dimming sky. Hill is humming, bobbing his head back and forth with his eyes shut. The big kettles sit cold with the few sacks heaped up beside them, ready to be packed back to the fort.

  All of this is about to change, I am about to change all of it. I look back to the chiefs. Black Fish lifts his chin. And so I walk forward first from the trees.

  Hill sits up and rubs at his forehead, which has gone pink. He is the first to speak:

  —Dan! Here is our hunter. Surely not empty-handed.

  I take a breath and I say:

  —No. I have brought plenty with me.

  I blow out through my teeth. There is nothing clever that I can do or say here. I have done it. Here is the only truth:

  —Boys. The game is up. They have me, there are too many of them. Do not fight and you may live yet.

  They look at me as though I were a ghost, as though I am mad indeed.

  They do not kill anyone straight away. Black Fish stays his warriors, though some of them keep their weapons out at I might say jaunty angles.

  My men are still looking to me, all narrow eyes and straight mouths. They are sitting in the snow, tied to Shawnees now. The whole camp is scratched over with purple shadows and our guns are a dark shapeless hill a way off. Callaway looks grim but satisfied, his uncle’s usual expression. He and the Brooks brothers were the last to give up their weapons. I see him speak to Hill, and now Hill’s eyes bounce about the camp. He appears to be considering some leap or statement.

  I know I will have to speak before Hill does. I will have to play the game. Well. I know how.

  Slowly I get to my feet, pulling my heavy keeper up with me. He stands beside me and makes sure to show he is gripping the tie and my arm in his hands. My mind rolls over like an old dog. In my slow Shawnee mixed with English I say:

  —Brothers. Look at us. You see all of these warriors? Look. They will make excellent hunters. They know what to feed women. They know, believe me.

  I try to smile, and Hill guffaws, though he understands nothing, before stopping himself. Black Fish’s interpreter turns my words into better Shawnee, that is to say I hope he is doing so. A general stir and laugh come. I go on:

  —They will be able to feed your families as well as ours who remain at the fort. I must tell you that the fort is strong. It is a very good fort, a great one. You were on your way there, I know, but it will give you much difficulty if you try to take it. There will be many deaths. We do not need more deaths. And there is no need to harm my men here. I know you will not do that.

  I hope the real fort, poor and rotten as it is, does not paint itself on my face. But the Shawnee are listening. The talk rains out of my mouth, though I am not thinking right:

  —It is better to wait. Much better to wait. In spring our women and children can travel easily. No deaths. Then I will take you there, and they will all surrender gladly when I tell them about you, and we will go to your towns and all live as one people. It will be better, we will all be better off.

  For a wild moment I believe the mad talk that is tumbling from me, this wonderful story, all of my lies. I catch Hill’s face, smiling and full of belief as well. My arms are out, my hands turned up. My ribcage feels thin as eggshell, but my brain i
s quick as lightning. I say:

  —Be good to my men and they will do as you ask. Look at them. All good men. See?

  The black man speaks for some time. I cannot catch all of the words.

  When he is done, all at once the Indians begin to talk. Their argument boils up and sweeps round the camp, rising and falling like wind. When someone reaches for a tall straight stick among their things, a sudden order takes hold. They queue up to have their turn holding it and speaking. They all speak long and full of passion. Their faces shift and fade in the twilight but their talk goes on.

  I understand enough to know that it is bad. Some of the Shawnee warriors throw back their heads as they listen. Aroas looks serious. Some of my men stare back, and few of the younger ones bare their teeth, attempting to show they are not weak, but unsure of what to do. Callaway lifts his lip and I see his dead side-tooth. He rubs his red hair up under his hat. Then his face returns to its measuring. I can see his thoughts working in a line like ants: There is a way out, there are several.

  The chiefs go off to speak amongst themselves. My men look to me, but I do not understand anything now. The snow is still pale in the dark. The stars try to pierce through.

  Black Fish steps away from the chiefs and walks back towards us and his warriors. He pronounces something and sets his hands apart with the space of a foot between them. His eyes give off cold.

  It is very silent. He says one word, it is a short word. Neppoa. Now comes a show of Shawnee hands.

  The black man counts slow, his finger bobs as if he were marking music. Black Fish says another word. I do not catch it. More hands go up. I cannot count now, it seems to me I no longer know what numbers are. My brains try to recall Ma singing a counting song when I was a small boy. One and two, two and three.