All True Not a Lie in It

by Alix Hawley

  —I do know. They did not kill you, though. They have not yet.

  Pompey’s hands are above his head, the fingers spread like branches against the sky. He swings them down and says:

  —That is where they bury their dead. See the sticks?

  He points to a small open place a distance through the trees. Painted sticks stand in the ground there, some weathered and some bright. I say nothing. He does not frighten me. He smiles and says:

  —The sticks are hollow. So they can breathe, the dead. On their journey to the next world. It takes three days and nights. Did you know?

  I cannot speak. I cannot. He looks at me all curious and says:

  —Well, Sheltowee. Which of your many daughters is the famous whore that everyone knows?

  The black man’s voice hunts me, it slides after me when I am in the woods with the gun and the guard. It catches me up.

  You wished to get yourself caught. And your white fellows with you.

  I cannot lose either the voice or my young keeper, who is closer than ever now that I have let him shoot the gun. I step over the slushy ground and crusts of snow. I am heavy-footed and noisy. Let the game run off from us, I do not care. But the memory of hunger on the march is ferocious, like a beast writhing in the gut. My eyes quicken and sharpen with it in their old way, seeking out animal movement in the trees.

  But why hunt? Why feed them at all? I load the old gun and I hand it back to my guard.

  —Enjoy yourself.

  He whips it away, most happy to have it again. But his face drops when he looks at me. He thinks of Black Fish, and he will not abandon his duty. He motions that we should walk on, that I should follow him, and I do. Indeed I keep to his very footsteps and I near step on his heels more than once. Running now would be no help. There is the tiny chance that he might shoot me, for one, though I have seen his aim now. I do not wish to be a month dying of a gunshot wound. And if I were to get through the woods, who would help? The other small forts that popped up round us have already been drained of their terrified settlers. Boonesborough is the last.

  My mind keeps settling on my Indian mother’s teary face. It sinks me into a miserable low feeling. Do not think of weeping Ma in Carolina. Do not think.

  I keep my eyes on my guard’s back. He walks quietly enough, this way and that, his head up, seeing nothing. We go deep into the woods with no sense to our movement, no catching of any traces. After a time I cannot help myself, and I give his shirt a tug. I say:

  —What is your name?

  After a moment, he says:

  —Kaskee.

  —All right, Kaskee. Look. No, look down. Here. A deer has been lying here. This is the sign, the way the needles have moved against the direction of all the others. Do you see? Easy. Signs are everywhere. Your people know this.

  The guard looks at me all earnest, likely understanding nothing. My Shawnee is still weak enough. I pantomime running on the spot, making antlers with my fingers against my forehead. Then I lie down in the whispery slick needles under the boughs. Kaskee nods in a serious manner and lies down too. Well. What else is there to do?

  We lie here a long time, our legs growing stiff and cold. A tidy heap of deer droppings sits near our heads. But I do not wish to move. I begin to whistle an old song of my Ma’s from the times we went to the high pastures in summer, one of the tunes she would hum to the cows as she herded them in for the night, patting their heavy sides. Come you and you, come in come in. It is a pleasant little tune, it shakes the song about whores from my ears. Ma singing it and I roasting the birds I caught for us. Martins and blackbirds and songbirds. My heart lifts for a moment and I close my eyes and whistle on. Kaskee is listening. But before I finish he gives me a little shake and tells me to get up, we must hunt. He stands brushing dirt and needles from himself, but I remain where I am.

  —You go on. I will be just here.

  Now comes a crash out of the brush. It is directly before us, unmoving. I can see its soft fringed brown eye and the velvet on its short points, the bald fly-bitten patches on its flank, the winter hair beginning to fall. A buck. I take up the gun from the ground and half-sitting, I get it through the chest. It falls at our feet with a final thump. The shot is clean. The holes are small and hidden in the hair, the buck’s face is peaceful. Its brown eye is even closed, as if all it has ever wanted was to be shot by me today.

  —Well.

  This is all I can think to say. Signs are everywhere, yes, but who can say what they mean? I know nothing. Kaskee blinks and touches his mottled chin.

  The breath cuts through the air from close by, hard and ragged. Kaskee turns to look, but I know the rhythm of his mad panting. Johnson. Gambolling, though not in a very duck-like fashion, and lolling his tongue as he does so. He capers about in the small clearing. The corners of his mouth have dried white patches upon them, his matted beard is like a frantic creature clinging to his face. His eyes are red but they clear when they light on me. He sweeps a great bow and then performs his weird boneless dance in a circle around the deer, stepping high. Kaskee relaxes and smirks. Only the Little Duck. His own keeper catches up now, looking fed up to the teeth. I say:

  —Johnson. This deer yours?

  —Is this the sound of the Lord I hear? Or only my private lord? A lord just for me?

  His head is cocked and his tongue is still hanging out and so he speaks stupidly. He means to sound stupid. He squeals. His guard is speaking to mine, waving an arm as if to say: Look what I am forced to put up with.

  —Ease up, man. They are tiring of you. You will get yourself killed, acting this way.

  —Would you not be pleased at that sight? A dead duck at your feet just like this deer. Not my deer, no. Nothing to do with me.

  No hidden friendliness in Johnson’s voice.

  —Johnson.

  —Pekula is my name.

  —You must stop drawing so much attention to yourself. They are leaving you in peace now, they think you are a joke, but they do not—

  —You call this life a peaceful life, Dan? Lord Dan! And here poor Pekula thought we were clearing this country of lords. God save the bloody king, is it, eh? Your wife’s family are still king-lovers. You as well?

  —It is peaceful enough here. It can continue to be so. Ease up.

  Johnson moves closer to where I sit. His mouth is open under his beard, it has the smell of a pit. His eyes shift left to right and go clear again when they settle on mine. He speaks low now and not at all stupidly:

  —They like you.

  —They like you as well.

  —You like them, Boone. You always did. Like it here, do you? Happy?

  He jabs a quick finger at my collarbone. I say:

  —You seem to feel at home yourself. Do you like your new father and mother? Have they found you a wife yet? Settling you down?

  He shrinks his eyes down to pinheads and says:

  —I always liked your wife. Your girls too. Everyone likes them, everyone does. I used to pay your Susy a penny to run my hand up her arm. What was the cost for a touch of ankle, or higher up the leg, beneath the skirt? Oh Susy, oh Susy—

  My hands are clenched, they ache from clenching. He smiles and goes on:

  —But any one of them would do for me. I will take them all off your hands, Dan. I never turn down a gift horse, even a secondhand one. We would all like to try their gait. Trot dam, trot filly!

  He trots up and down a moment. I stalk after him and he says:

  —Have you not heard the song? I hope you have, I know you have! I devised it myself. All for you.

  Turning, he kisses me firm on my mouth. His breath works its way up into my nostrils and will not depart. I pull back, I strike his chin with a hard crack. He coughs and whispers:

  —Have you not wondered what your women are doing without you?

  He widens his eyes and heaves himself up to gambol about again. He lopes and sweeps and looks vaguely threatening, like a crippled man scything. The guards are watching.


  All my blood is hot and dark. The dead deer with its closed eye lies as if asleep. I still have the gun and some shot. Johnson is still in sight, lolloping back towards the town with his guard in disgusted pursuit.

  My young keeper has no idea what to do. Through my teeth I say in Shawnee:

  —Come on.

  He holds out his hand for the gun but I strap it on my back again. Enough shooting. Enough. He grudgingly takes a hind leg, I take the other, and we begin to drag the buck through the slippery needles and patches of boggy snow. A dark furrow follows behind us. To be rid of Johnson and the taste of his mouth, I make myself speak:

  —There is an easy sign for you. Look, anyone might track us.

  I point to show him, but looking back, Kaskee stumbles and falls hard, landing on his side and knocking out his breath. I try to help him up but he shakes me off roughly. He turns his back but I have seen he is weeping. A young man’s weeping, angry at itself, ripped out of the chest. He sniffs up a noseful of wet and Jamesie flies up suddenly from the depths of my brains to the surface. Jamesie’s face stricken with that same awkward furious sorrow, like someone trying without success to lob a huge stone away from him.

  Quickly the thought vanishes, leaving nothing, nothing, and I dream of battering the guard in the face, because it is the wrong face. Pummel it to blood and mash. I clasp the young man’s shoulder very hard for a moment, jabbing in my thumb. Then we drag the deer on towards the town, for where else is there for either of us to go?

  YOUR MOTHER is a whore? Your wife is a whore? Your daughter is a whore, whore?

  The woman is singing lightly on her way to the river some days later. I am keeping away from Pompey and Johnson and everyone but my sulking guard. I am keeping myself to myself, working on another oak gunstock for my father. But I hear what she sings as she passes. Her English has a slip in the tone, it gives the words the sound of questions. This is a small mercy and so I answer her:

  —They go on saying the same thing, so it must be true. How do, Delilah?

  —Your men say so. All the time now.

  She looks at me. Her usual expression seems to be an unsmiling one, but her eyes have a wry cast. The sharp little girl with her is tapping her heels together with great concentration. To her I say how do, and she repeats it back: How do. She seems to be saying: Get it right, you oaf.

  On the girl I try some of my oafish Shawnee. I hope for the laugh my little sisters always give me for it. I must have the voice of an Indian bumpkin. But the child turns away and bangs her little heels together again without a flinch. To Delilah I say:

  —And this is your daughter? Speaking of daughters. She does not look much like her mother, if you will pardon my saying so. Not that looks signify.

  She runs a hand over the girl’s hair. I say:

  —Planning some more barbering? The girl’s hair is prettier than mine. You might let her keep all of it.

  She turns her look on me and says:

  —Your hair is growing. But—thin.

  —Limp, you might say.

  —Yes.

  She does not smile. I feel dim as a sheep. I say:

  —You and your ladies will be at work on me again soon, then.

  —Maybe so.

  She pulls at the girl and picks up her pot. Her arm is thin and ropy and I am suddenly struck with the thought that she must rarely have enough to eat. I have seen her outside a small wigwam up the street from Black Fish’s house. She seems to have no man and no adopted white son or husband. She helps my Indian mother at her work some days and receives some meat in return. I say:

  —Would you like fresh meat? I can hunt for you. I have a gun now.

  —You should give meat to your mother.

  —I do. But I can get more. Only ask my guard what I can do! Deer fall out of trees and into my arms.

  Kaskee points his surly chin away from me. He has not forgiven me for seeing him weeping, or for shooting a deer so easy, or for having a gun when I am white. Delilah says nothing and so I carry on:

  —I can dress the skin for you, butcher the meat.

  —I can do these things.

  —I am sure you can.

  Kaskee sniffs violently and gives my arm a jerk. But I say:

  —Your little girl could help you.

  —She does help me.

  I want to ask the girl’s name, but I am held back by the sharp little face staring at me. She looks as if her heart has been smashed and reset very firm. Delilah begins to walk on and I stand where I am. I see my young self at old Bryan’s door, covered in butchering blood, willing Rebecca to come outside and see. So long ago, it seems. I want to say: A man needs a bowl of milk now and then. But Delilah is down the path, the girl bolting after her. She walks on a few steps, then turns and says:

  —Why do they keep saying this about your daughter?

  —Well. It is easy to turn on the leader when people are unhappy. Or the leader’s daughters. I do not know, I do not even know which daughter. I think it is Jemima they mean. Though my Susy has the same thing said about her plenty.

  Johnson is not the only one to make remarks about Susannah. She was always bubbling over with life, she cannot help herself, I know. Susy my girl, I am sorry for you. It is hard for us, it is in the blood, this thumping wish to do as we like.

  But it is no matter now. I shrug as Delilah did. She says:

  —Your daughter was taken from your fort but you took her back. Is it she?

  I am confused to hear her say it. My old life, far away, covered in ash. When I can speak I say:

  —How do you know about Jemima being taken?

  Again she lifts her shoulders. She says:

  —Your girls were taken outside your fort soon after you built it. Our men knew they were yours. They were going to bring them here. But you and your men found them first. They are clever girls.

  She smiles. I am startled by it, her pink gums and her round eyes creasing. I say:

  —They are. Only Jemima is mine, though. The other two taken were Callaways.

  She is mine: it does not occur to me to deny it. She is mine. I let a thought of her face creep across my mind. Delilah says:

  —They tore their skirts to make a trail so you would find them. They cried and fell off the pony to be slow. Again and again.

  I have to smile too. I remember what they told me afterwards. I say:

  —You know the whole story, I see.

  —It is a good story. For you. For us, not so good.

  —Was it your Shawnee—here—who took her? Your own people, here in this town?

  She tilts her head. My Fate has been whipping me head-down and blinkered to this place all along, I know it. I want to ask her whether she knows about Jamesie. But I will not speak of him. I stare at the rising river, swelling now with the thaw. I pick up a rock and throw it. I am reminded that I saved Jemima. I got her back. The Callaway girls and her. Not my boy, but her. I shake my head. Well, can I be bad all through? A little wing flutters in my chest, but not for long.

  Delilah has her girl by the hand now. I cough and blurt after them:

  —It was a mess. We near shot her. Betsy Callaway too. Took them for Shawnee—for two of you. They both have black hair, it was down loose, they ran at us, and their skirts torn off at the knees—

  She says simply:

  —Yes, a mess. We know the story. Everyone knows.

  —You like stories about us, we like stories about you.

  The little girl has skipped ahead, only her shadow is visible as she rounds the bend. Delilah goes after her. I want to shout and tell them I was sure the girls were all dead. In my heart they were dead. The men hate me because they expect me to save them from here in the same way I saved her. Because I cannot. They call her a whore because she is my daughter now, Jemima my poor girl.

  It does have the feel of a story. It unrolls itself like a bolt of Daddy’s crooked weaving through my head as I lie on my mat tonight. Sleep does not often descend here, a
nd when it does it is a woolly unrestful sleep that does little good. Why sleep? Why throw yourself off a cliff into a pit every night and have to pull yourself out of it again every morning? When I do sleep I hear Death whispering all garbled to me in Pompey’s voice, in some other tongue. And this night I wake startled out of my pit to hear Hill singing with a tomcat’s wretched desperation across the night. I do not know what he is singing and I do not care to hear. How long can he keep it up? I do not hear Callaway. They seem far from here, they seem to have gone under a hill.

  I know near every part of the town now. I have visited different houses. I have seen means for escape: a boat to take, a horse to take. My guard is near always and does not trust me fully in spite of my letting him use the gun. He would love to be the town hero for catching me escaping. For the time I remain much at home. For the first time in my life I like to be at home. It is a refuge from the faces of my men and the things I cannot do.

  I decide I will try to be a better son to my mother. I grind corn if I am asked, though it is woman’s work. I scrub pots with sand. I make a stool covered with carvings of the tiny folk and giants from Gulliver’s Travels, and I tell the little girls about them. I say Boo Hoo and Brobdingnag to make them laugh. But I will not work in the fields near my men. I have had enough of songs about whores, and I have no wish to see Johnson again for the time.

  Black Fish sits silent in the wigwam in the evening. The sun is low, but light still makes its patchy way in through the walls and the smoke-opening in the roof. The little girls huddle near him, they pull the feathers from his hair idly. My mother is stitching a shirt and I am making a new bone awl for her. She never looks at my eyes, she keeps her look instead on my chin or cheek, but she has grown more used to my presence in her house. She still calls me Boy, Skillawethetha, as if the word is new to her. She has not brought herself to say my son, Niequeetha, the way my father does.

  The flax thread hisses lightly as her arm cuts through the air with her sewing. I watch its shadow against the wall. The whole village is quieter tonight. There is no sound from the big house or from the prison house. The fire flickers in small bursts, it is keeping itself quiet also.