Mother snorted derisively. “Yer just fool enough to do this, ain’t ya, Katie? So let me tell ya what’ll happen if y’do. That little squirt there believes yer something y’know damned well yer not. ’Twill go hard on you when he realizes how wrong he was! Mark m’words, Katie—he’ll make ye pay for his mistake! And ye’ll pay dear!”
I thought of my mother’s marriage, of all the marriages I’d seen through my seventeen years. In a flash, I saw the infinite hardships of my early days, the perpetual quarrels and recriminations, the constant conflicts and endless posturing for power. I saw all the potential outcomes for my life if I stayed within the bosom of my family—the struggles, the contempt, the shame, and the greed. ’Twas all so petty, so painful, and so utterly meaningless. I believed with all my heart that Eliza was right and Syawa was most likely mad, but for the life of me I could not understand why I should choose sanity o’er madness when sanity hurt so much and madness seemed so sweet. I could feel my mother’s claws digging through my sleeve into the flesh of my upper arm, and I squirmed the same way I did when I was five and she was trying to keep me still in church. As I moved, my gaze shifted and I happened to see Syawa’s face.
He was staring at me with such warmth, such affection, such complete and utter confidence. Yes, he was short and strange and perhaps simple-minded and undoubtedly insane. But he made me feel so special, so treasured, so important. I’d ne’er felt that I mattered at all, much less that I mattered so much. Sad to say, I’d ne’er in my life felt appreciated in any way, and it was intoxicating, that feeling. I loved it. I wanted to keep feeling that way.
Besides, I ne’er could pass up a chance to torment my mother.
I came back to myself, suddenly, as if the me that had been watching these events from the edge of the forest floated right o’er the crowd and fell back into my body. I jerked my arm from my mother’s grasp to crawl over to Syawa. I knelt before him and lifted my right hand to point to my chest. Then I made a walking motion with my fingers, moving toward him. I pointed at him and nodded.
Syawa lifted his face and whooped in joy. The entire populace joined in, like a pack of wolves howling at the moon. Only my family did not participate in the celebration—well, them and Hector, who was still sitting on the mat with the elders, apparently as shocked as my mother and sister. Only when Syawa raced o’er to gabble at him in their foreign tongue did Hector finally react. I saw relief wash o’er him as he reached out to pull Syawa’s head to his, their foreheads touching for a moment in a tender testament to the bond between them.
I inhaled deeply and sighed as I turned to my family members, who were all viciously berating me for being such a goddamned fool. I smiled to myself.
I knew I’d made the right decision.
~5~
BY THE NEXT MORNING, of course, I had completely changed my mind, but ’twas far too late to reconsider. All I could do was raise a trembling hand to wave good-bye as the same band of warriors who’d captured us led my family members off to the northeast. Only William returned my pitiful gesture; my mother and sister merely sneered. When they were out of sight, I slowly turned to my two strange companions, who stood awaiting me patiently. With ragged breath and eyes downcast, I followed as they set off to the west.
I was terrified. I have done many stupid things in my life, but none more foolhardy than this. What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Was I really willing to throw my life away, just to get back at my wretched mother? Come now, Katie—think, think! How will ye get back to Philadelphia? My mind raced, coming up with wild plans for escaping so I could either catch up with my kin or somehow return to civilization on my own. One way or another I knew I must return to Philadelphia.
But Syawa gave me no idle time to devise ill-fated plans. As soon as we set off, he veritably bounced along the trail, walking beside me first on one side, then the other, chattering all the while like a squirrel gathering fat nuts. I, of course, understood none of what he said, but I could not help but be touched by his enthusiasm.
Hector set a wearisome pace, trotting along a trail only he could see. I was young and hale and at first I thought I did an admirable job of keeping up, but after several hours of scurrying along I simply must rest. That’s when I realized Hector had actually been holding himself back for my benefit. Whilst I rested and Syawa engaged me with his non-stop blather, Hector paced impatiently, scowling, tight-lipped, at the trail ahead. Thereafter I required frequent rests, which Syawa was perfectly happy to oblige, but Hector bestowed only grudgingly.
From the start, I worried about Hector. As frightening as I found him to be, I was e’en more puzzled by him. He clearly resented my presence—but why? If he had known Syawa was looking for someone to take back to his people, why did he resent me? Did he not expect Syawa’s Journey to be successful? Or did he just not believe I was the person Syawa was looking for?
I had little time to spare for pondering such curiosities, as my immediate task was to learn Syawa’s language. I felt sure I could accomplish this goal quickly, as my father, who spoke five languages, had forced us all to learn Latin and French e’en as we learnt English. Tho’ my Latin was choppy, I was fairly fluent in French, for it was the language my siblings and I used whene’er we wanted to keep secrets from Mother. Because of my experience with languages, I was confident I could soon master Syawa’s savage tongue.
My confidence proved overly optimistic.
Syawa began by telling me words for things we saw along the trail—tree, cloud, rock—but I was immediately baffled when he seemed to have multiple words for most objects. Words changed, apparently at random, depending upon how the object was used, seen, or talked about, and who was doing the using, seeing, or talking. What was worse, his language was composed of sounds unlike any I’d e’er heard—stranger e’en than the weird sounds of Gaelic my gran occasionally used—and I learnt to my dismay that the mispronunciation of a single syllable could completely alter a word’s meaning. Try tho’ I might, I uttered few words to Syawa’s satisfaction. He repeated them again and again, but the nuances eluded me. Still, he remained good-natured about my efforts and was absolutely delighted by my determination.
I soon learnt it best to memorize entire phrases rather than simple words, and so I focused on those collections of sounds that meant “I must rest” or “I am hungry” or “I am ready.” In that way Syawa and I laboriously began to communicate in words at long last.
Of course, the fact that Syawa was such an indefatigable talker meant I came to understand his meaning long before I could speak myself. Whene’er we stopt, he chattered on about himself, his family, his people, and his world through slow, oft-repeated phrases and his complex vocabulary of gestures. Using small stones to represent years, he explained he was twenty-five, Hector twenty-one. I was surprised to learn they were so much older than I’d thought, but their lack of beards and body hair made them seem young. Syawa went on to make me understand how unusual it was for any of his people to undertake the sort of Journey they were on, but added with a grin that he was very unusual amongst his people in many ways. I could certainly believe that—he was such a peculiar fellow, I felt certain he would stand out in any crowd.
After we supt on the first night of our journey, Hector immediately went to sleep as Syawa worked hard to explain that his people were nothing like the Indians we’d just left. Instead of living in crude bark huts, for example, his people lived in spacious wooden houses more like the one in which he’d found me. He also assured me that, unlike the Indians of Pennsylvania, who achieved notoriety through war, or my own people, who acquired power through property, his people earned status by being accomplisht artisans.
I wish I could impart how daunting it was for Syawa to explain such complex concepts through naught but gestures, but he was resolute and I was eager to learn. I frowned in concentration as he painstakingly pantomimed building, carving, painting, weaving, and I nodded as I slowly abso
rbed his meaning. His people, I concluded, took great pride in craftsmanship.
Once he made me understand how important these refined skills were to his people, he went on to make clear, in no uncertain terms, that he, alas, did not excel at any of those endeavors. “I—not do—building, carving, painting,” he told me, shrugging in a self-deprecating way, tho’ his perpetual smile was still intact. “I think, dream—alone much. No friend—but him.” And he pointed to Hector, rolled up in his sleeping fur.
From this I deduced Syawa was a loner, an outcast, someone who did not fit very well within the world he knew, and this news only made him more appealing to me. “I—do much,” I told him, trying hard to replicate the sounds he’d made. “But I—do much alone. No friend—no him.”
Syawa’s smile flickered as he sympathized, his black eyes shining. “You—alone—not now,” he said softly. He took my hand and gestured from me to him to our joined hands. “You—me—together—forever.”
I smiled, tears in my eyes, and slowly repeated the sounds he’d made. He grinned, and for the first time in my miserable life, I had some inkling of what it was to be wanted, to be loved. I suppose that was the moment in which it finally occurred to me I might not make it back to Philadelphia after all.
• • •
As plain as I found this declaration of love to be, it was yet unclear to me whether or not Syawa now considered us to be husband and wife; save for this one romantic moment, he continued to treat me as if I were little more than a beloved sister. I had no words to inquire as to what his ultimate intentions were, but I deduced his objective must, of course, be marriage, because, after all, that’s what men and women do. I did not particularly relish the idea of being married to a savage, but, then again, I did not particularly relish the idea of being married to any man. Having no means or power to avoid it, however, I had long since concluded marriage was something which would inevitably befall me, like rotting teeth or running bowels, and I was resigned to making the best of it when it occurred. As Gran would say, “God’s Will be done.”
Thus, in the quiet times of our journey, whilst trotting through the thick forest at a pace which made all attempts at conversation impossible, I pondered what marriage to this odd fellow might mean. I had certainly ne’er imagined myself betrothed to such an unlikely candidate. His incessant smile, while decidedly pleasant, made him seem, as Liza suggested, simple-minded, and his admitted predilection for dreaming, coupled with his acknowledged inability to excel at everyday tasks, suggested he was probably going to be a poor provider. On the other hand, his smallish stature and unremarkable appearance no doubt prevented him from being promiscuous, which made me wonder if the real reason behind his quest to find a “certain woman” was simply the fact that it might require such a journey to find any woman willing to accept him.
And yet, I, myself, was such a peculiar girl that I found his lack of obvious advantages to be a major part of his charm, as I always was one to be drawn to the lame puppy or the runt hog of the litter. I freely admit I admired Syawa’s confession of shortcomings, not to mention his lack of guile and unwavering good humor in the face of hardship, conflict, and danger—mostly because those traits were so foreign to my experience of men. No man I’d e’er known would admit to being weak or frightened or worried or wrong, for every man I’d e’er known was always locked in a self-imposed struggle to be the biggest, the brightest, the toughest, or the meanest. Hector, whose face was either entirely emotionless or set in a scowl, was much more like every other man I’d e’er known.
But e’en as I was drawn to Syawa’s uniqueness, I was unnerved by it as well. Did I really want to spend my life obliged to a grinning fool, someone who seemed half-witted, a man others might well dismiss as the equivalent of a village idiot?
Which is not to say I thought Syawa stupid. Clearly he was not. The determination and dedication required to trek through miles of hostile territory to find the woman of his dreams was not only flattering and romantic, but the mark of a strong character as well. Any reasonable person might view his “quest” as half-baked and detached from reality, but I was enough of a dreamer myself to understand the nature of his obsession and respect it. He might be mad, as my sister proclaimed, but, for me, madness was far from a disqualifier. Little in life had e’er made sense to me.
Besides, there was one thing about Syawa I found utterly irresistible—his glibness of tongue. At first, of course, I understood naught of what he said, but I was tickled by the fact he ne’er ran out of things to say. He chattered on like a bird at dawn, and tho’ I knew not what he was talking about, I truly enjoyed listening to him. Most evenings, both whilst we were with my family and thereafter, Syawa passed the time by telling some sort of story, which Hector—who was the only one who understood him—attended with great interest. Sometimes Hector was amused by the tales, sometimes saddened, but always he was entertained. I found myself envying the tall, silent man because he clearly derived so much pleasure from listening to his friend’s words.
After the story each night, Hector curled up in his fur and went right to sleep, but Syawa always continued to sit by the fire and talk, e’en after I wrapt myself in my bearskin and lay down to sleep as well. At first I thought he did this to prevent me from attempting a nocturnal escape, for Syawa’s voice had such a hypnotic effect I inevitably fell asleep long before he stopt talking, but he continued the ritual long after he must’ve known I had no intention of slipping away during the night.
Puzzling o’er why Syawa’s stories had such an effect on me, I came to believe ’twas because he reminded me of my father, who was quite a storyteller himself. The rare occasions during my childhood when my family was happy occurred when Father was sufficiently liquored up to be chatty, but not so drunk as to be itching for a fight. Then he would sit before the fire and tell long, lingering, delicious tales of books he’d read or legends he himself had been told as a child. The only time I e’er truly loved my father was when he was telling one of his long stories, and the only time I actually enjoyed being a member of my family was when we were all gathered together on a dark winter’s night, listening to father tell his tales.
So I supposed all this storytelling predisposed me to accept the peculiarities of the strange little Indian who seemed so besotted by me, and thinking about my father reminded me that e’en if I might have found a considerably more appealing companion back amongst my own people, I was just as likely to end up with someone considerably worse. Thus I found myself floating farther and farther from my former life, swept away by the relentless current of Syawa’s cheerful chatter, and I snapt awake each morning to find him lying near me in his own sleeping fur, smiling, as if he, himself, ne’er slept.
It occurred to me the real reason behind the babble was to keep my thoughts from dwelling on the drastic way the course of my life had been diverted, and for that I was grateful. It goes without saying I was in desperate need of ongoing distraction from the tremendous weariness I suffered—those first days on the trail were sheer torture. Up and down we went, ’round and ’round, and on and on and on. Brambles tore at my clothing, rocks and roots tript me, my hand-me-down shoes left my feet blistered, oozing, and raw. I bowed my head each time Hector grumbled about stopping, but Syawa only laughed and said all was well. Time and again he said the three of us were exactly where we should be.
Neither Hector nor I could very well argue with that.
~6~
AS MY STRENGTH AND endurance improved, our pace quickened, with one notable exception—water crossings. I loathed getting wet, but the invisible trail we followed forced me to wade through innumerable swamps and streams that left my shoes soggy, squeaky, and chafing my feet. Worse still, I was oft required to slog across much larger bodies of water which soaked my skirts to the skin. Oh, how much more bitterly did the March wind bite with clammy, cold cloth clinging to my legs!
Sometimes it rained, but I recall only
one afternoon when a downpour actually delayed us. I enjoyed those hours huddled under the ingenious tent my companions constructed, not only because I was able to rest my throbbing feet, but also because I was able to concentrate more fully on Syawa’s language lesson. Unfortunately, all that spring rain only served to swell the streams, making what was already a challenge for me become almost an impossibility.
The day came when my companions perked up and quickened their pace—I knew not why. As we topt a rise, they both whooped and ran recklessly down the hillside, shedding their packs so they could dive headlong into the water of a sizeable river. I followed them sedately and stood on the riverbank, forlorn, watching as they splashed about. Eventually Syawa came back to coax me in, but either he did not understand or could not believe I was unable to swim a lick. He told Hector to walk out to the middle of the stream to show me the water was no deeper than his chest, but I found this revelation small comfort in the face of what seemed to me to be a raging torrent.
In the end the men had to drag me across the river, each clutching an arm, whilst I kept my eyes tightly shut and whimpered the whole way. For the first time in our acquaintance, Syawa seemed unhappy when we reached the opposite shore and I fell to my knees sobbing, o’ercome by anxiety. His face was grim as he said something to Hector, but the disgusted tone of Hector’s reply was unmistakable.
Still on my knees in the mud, I glanced up as Hector spoke. He was saying something about smell—something about how it was too bad the river had not washed away the smell of my clothing. At that, my tears dried up. I rose shakily and walked back into the river ’til the water was up to my waist. I knelt down and rubbed the water into my clothes, glaring at Hector, who watched in astonishment. I scrubbed myself ’til I felt sure my “smell” had been washed away, then stomped out of the water and walked to a log where I could sit and furiously wring out my skirts.
The Spirit Keeper Page 4