The Spirit Keeper

by K. B. Laugheed

  Then the unthinkable happened. Increasingly frustrated by my own incompetence, I banged furiously against the wood and somehow managed to snap the stone blade in two. Terrified, I considered throwing down the ax and running off into the woods to start at last for Philadelphia, but ’twas already too late—Syawa was returning. I had no choice but to show him the ax, at which he sighed and gestured that this was most unfortunate. The ax, he said, had been a gift to Hector from his father.

  I sobbed and sobbed, repeating over and over the new word I had learnt—stupid, stupid, stupid. With infinite patience, Syawa took the ax from me and told me ’twas not my fault. The blade had broken, he said, not because I was stupid, but because I had not been properly taught to use it. The fault, he said, was his.

  And then he helpt me gather firewood that would not require chopping.

  ~9~

  BECAUSE OF THE AWFUL TENSION in our traveling threesome, I was actually relieved when we arrived at another village. As before, I assumed this was our destination ’til I learnt it was not. Tho’ the river here was larger than the one beside Tomi’s village, the village itself seemed smaller, but I soon discovered it was only one of a number of hamlets in the area, all drawn to this location by a nearby French trading post. As a result, the total population in this valley was much higher than in Tomi’s village.

  From what I could discern, the people of this place spoke a different tongue than Tomi, but they, too, understood the language of gestures and they, too, were clearly acquainted with my companions and eager to learn of their Journey’s progress. I did not fail to notice that whilst Syawa and Hector were perfectly pleasant with the people of the village, they continued to speak to one another as little as possible.

  We arrived late in the day, and early the next morning Syawa sent me off with some women to bathe, as he and Hector went off to the men’s bathing area. I washed my hair and tied it in a knot so I could help the women prepare food. Because of the proximity of the trading post, these women had all the utensils and ingredients I had been missing, and I was actually able to be useful. Moreover, I found a woman who spoke some English, enabling me to get invaluable advice about campsite cooking.

  It was only when Syawa and Hector finally returned and I saw they were elaborately painted and adorned that I finally understood why we were preparing so much food—it was a Feast to celebrate the triumphant return of the Seer from a Distant Land. Syawa was pleased to see me working with the women, but he soon pulled me away to explain that this time I must help tell our story. “What must I do?” I asked warily.

  Saying I would know when the time came, he untied my hair and smiled as he brushed it out with his fingers. “You are ready,” he said warmly. “Except . . . you must be happy.” He grinned, compelling me to smile back.

  I had little chance to fret, for the feasting had already begun. The quantity of food was formidable, especially since I had become accustomed to a rather sparse diet during our long days of walking. After sating my hunger, I sat back, determined not to appear greedy, but Syawa and Hector continued to eat and eat and eat and eat, almost as if obliged to do so.

  I later learnt this was precisely the case. Syawa told me that to refuse the generosity of another was a great insult, especially when it came to the sharing of food. I blush now to think of the unintentional insults I inflicted because I was trying to be polite.

  My companions and I were seated on a mat before a large fire in the middle of a huge riverside meadow where countless people milled about. Throughout the feasting there was much revelry—dancing, singing, and the playing of rattles and drums. These activities were so interesting, with their dazzling array of costumes, hairstyles, and personal ornamentation, that I had little time to worry about what might soon be required of me.

  Dignitaries gave speeches which I scarce attended, for more and more people were constantly arriving, both from the woods and from the river. All laughed and chattered as they began to form a wide circle ’round the central fire. Children ran to and fro, looking for an opening through which they could push their way to the front. In a short time, the encircling throng grew from several dozen to several hundred, and I was increasingly uneasy. All these people were here to see my companion, the Great Seer. Again and again I looked to Syawa for emotional support, and he ne’er failed to smile or squeeze my hand.

  My mind reeled at the insane shift in my life’s fortunes. Two months previous I had been toiling away as a virtual slave in a shabby frontier settlement; now I sat in the center of a mob of devoted admirers, alongside someone whose reputation inspired wide-eyed reverence and awe. Who could blame me for wondering if all this was naught but a weird dream I myself was having, a delusion of my own o’erwrought imagination as I lay tucked in my crowded bed in the loft?

  When the sun went down, the dancing and singing reached a fever pitch. Then the singers stopt, the drums stopt, and the dancers disappeared. As several armloads of wood were added to the fire, the crowd hushed in anticipation. The excitement was contagious, and I looked anxiously to Syawa, wondering what was going to happen next.

  He was already on his feet, moving toward the fire. Suddenly the wood snapt and sparks shot up in a whirlwind burst, as if he’d tossed a handful of gunpowder into the flames. I gasped along with the rest of the onlookers. He began to move ’round the fire, the black and white and red designs painted on his face and nigh-naked body shimmering in the firelight, making him look more like a phantasm than a human being. Slowly he moved at first, then faster and faster, sizzling and snapping like a flame pulled loose from the fire. We all watched in amazement.

  Eventually he stopt dancing and began to sing, but because only Hector and I could understand his words, he also used the language of gestures, thus making his song another sort of dance. After the song, he told the story of his Vision by first describing a massive Earthquake that occurred just as his mother was being born. It shook the world his people lived in, toppling every building in every town, leaving everyone terrified and unsure. What did the Earthquake portend? What should the people do? In broad gestures he explained how his mother dreamt of some sort of bird just before he himself was born, and how his entire life had, therefore, been devoted to becoming a Holyman. Eventually he became the One Who Sees, and he was granted a Vision—the Vision of a Creature of Fire and Ice.

  I don’t know if it was because I knew Syawa better now, or because the crowd was more receptive, or because he truly did put more “magic” into this performance, but whate’er the case, this rendition of his Vision was truly soul-stirring. It was almost as if the entire performance was meant just for me, as I had finally become conversant enough with his words and gestures to understand. In any case, by the time he finisht, every mouth hung open, and Syawa was spent, dripping with sweat and trembling on his knees before the fire.

  That’s when Hector came in. Tho’ the two men had scarce spoken in days, they worked together now as if their two bodies were controlled by one mind. Clearly they had acted out this tale many, many times. Whilst Syawa told the story of their harrowing journey in words and gestures, the garishly painted Hector acted out the many perils and adventures they’d encountered along the way. In an impressive bit of pantomime, Hector relived a bear attack, which resulted, apparently, in the very bearskin Syawa had given me shortly after we met. Syawa joined Hector to demonstrate how they steered a canoe o’er a sizable waterfall somewhere along the way, and the two of them acted out the fear they felt when caught in the middle of some vast open field during a violent blizzard. Through it all, they were looking, looking, looking for the object of Syawa’s Vision.

  Everyone in the surrounding crowd was intoxicated by this story—no one more so than I. In fact, I was so caught up in the elaborate performance that when Syawa described how he and Hector joined local Indians in a raid on a family farm, I didn’t e’en think about the fact that he was talking about my family, my farm. They sh
owed how they passed through the mayhem of the massacre in the farmyard as if in a dream, looking, looking, always looking for the marvelous Creature of Fire and Ice. They showed how they cautiously entered a cabin whose residents had just been forcibly removed. They showed how a local savage tried to push past them, and how Hector thrust his stone blade into that man’s heart. Then they pretended to creep up the stairs, slowly, still looking and looking, creeping e’er closer to the mat upon which I sat. Then they stood up and froze, staring at me.

  Unaccustomed to being noticed at all, I was horrified to find myself suddenly at the center of a circle of hundreds of terribly excited savages, all of whom were gaping, waiting for me to do something. Silence descended as the anticipation grew. I swallowed heavily, left with no choice but to rise, trembling, before my traveling companions. I was not painted and wore naught but the simple clothes Tomi had given me, but as Syawa reached out and led me into the dancing shadows of the firelight, the encircling crowd drew in their collective breath. I suppose my white skin and long red curls did provide a startling contrast to my dark, fantastically painted companions. And, remembering the advice Syawa had given me, I smiled.

  I was relieved to discover little more was required of me. My companions danced, demonstrating their joy at having found me, and before I knew it, other people were inspired to join in. I soon found myself serving as the sole spot of stillness in the midst of an enormous whirlwind of energy, motion, and emotion. And in that spot of stillness, one fact kept swirling in and out of my thoughts: Hector had killed a man on my behalf.

  • • •

  Because of my exhaustion that night, both physically and emotionally, I am now unable to recall much of the festivities which followed. The dancing and singing continued ’til dawn, I believe, tho’ I have a vague memory of an old woman taking my hand and leading me to a dark hut where my bearskin awaited me. Grateful, I rolled myself into my furry cocoon and, despite the raging din, I slept ’til shortly after dawn.

  That’s when I heard Syawa cry out. I sat bolt upright, groggy, disoriented, terrified. My heart pounded as I looked ’round the dimly lit hut, trying to figure out what was wrong. Others were also sitting up, looking my way in alarm. Hector, who had apparently been lying with some young woman at the far end of the hut, had also been wrenched from his sleep and now stood nearby, naked and wild-eyed, holding his stone knife in the air as he looked for some enemy to stab. I averted my eyes, still deeply discomforted by the absolute absence of basic modesty amongst the Indians.

  It took a moment to realize Syawa had, at some point, come to lie beside me and was sitting there now, holding his head in his hands, shaking slightly. Traces of paint from the night before were smeared so that he looked like a child who’d been playing in the mud. He, too, was groggy and a bit embarrassed as he looked up at Hector and said something. I knew enough of their language now to recognize key words, especially the term “Vision.” Apparently Syawa had just had a dream—but not just any dream. This was the kind of dream he believed was a portent of things to come.

  I put my hand on his arm, concerned by his rapid breathing and trembling limbs. My touch seemed to bring him back to himself, and he looked at me sheepishly. “I dream of you,” he said, both in words and gestures. “I see you save three people. Without you, all three die. With you, all three live. Three people—three days.”

  I pulled back, blinking dumbly, wondering if I, myself, was having a dream. Everyone was staring at me now, and I heard hushed whispers begin. Someone got up and rushed from the hut, spreading the word of the Seer’s latest Vision. Hector squatted beside Syawa, glancing my way doubtfully. He asked Syawa for more details, and as Syawa jabbered away, the thing that struck me was that this was the longest conversation these two had had in at least a week.

  I lay back, still sleepy, my arm o’er my eyes. I was glad the men were speaking again, but inside I was just plain sick. Syawa said I would save the lives of three people, and now everyone would be expecting exactly that. But I had ne’er saved so much as the life of a chicken in all my seventeen years. What would happen if—or should I say when—his Vision failed to be realized? What would the people of this village think of him then? And what would they do?

  I tried to go back to sleep, but could not. As thrilling as it had been the night before to be intimately connected with such a celebrated man, now that connection seemed like a huge mistake. Apparently there was a price to be paid for fame and glory, and the bill was going to fall due for me in three days.

  ~10~

  AS SOON AS MY companions and I arose, we were approacht by a Frenchman inviting us to the trading post. Syawa immediately accepted, as if the invitation, like the offer of food, could not be refused. Tho’ my people have always viewed the French as interlopers, I soon learnt most of the Frenchmen at this post were native-born, sons of Indian mothers. Upon our arrival, two young half-breeds took Syawa and Hector to one side to show them weapons, whilst our original guide led me to a platform covered with fabrics, ribbons, and beads.

  As the trader strove to entice me with colorful cloths and sparkling trinkets, I remained silent and still. Having ne’er worn nothing that wasn’t handed down thru multiple family members, I had no taste for finery. Traders actually made me uneasy, and tho’ the young Frenchman urged me to touch this or feel that, I responded only with vague smiles. Except for my few personal items, which had little value to anyone but me, I possessed nothing to trade with, and, knowing I must carry all I owned, I had no desire to acquire nothing new anyway.

  I glanced at my companions to see if they were going to trade. Syawa was pleasant, as always, but aloof. His smile was scarce visible; his dark eyes were veiled. Hector was openly hostile, but then again he seemed always eager to shove his knife into something or someone.

  My trader worked hard to win me o’er, speaking in French, English, Dutch, and several Indian tongues, but when he evoked no response, he turned in frustration to a mat hanging from the rafters, which formed a partial wall behind him. That was when I discovered two additional Frenchmen sitting in the shadows, their narrowed eyes burning into me. I stared at them and saw that one was much older, rougher, and bolder—I supposed he was in charge of the place. The other was a black-robed priest.

  As soon as I saw the hidden men, I looked again to my companions, who were being shown how to powder a musket and thus were thoroughly distracted. When I returned my eyes to the traders, the older one had leant close enough that I could see the grizzle on his face. He smiled, looking me o’er in an intimate way, the way I’m sure he looked o’er most women, horses, and dogs. “How does a pretty young Englishwoman come to be in the company of strange savages?” he asked in near-perfect English.

  “Truth be told, I am an Irishwoman,” I said lightly.

  The hearty laughter of all three men caused Syawa and Hector to look my way. Alarmed to see three hairy foreigners looming o’er me, they would’ve come to my rescue, but just then the trader with the gun fired the weapon, startling my companions so much that they began shouting angrily. The shooter tried to soothe the ruffled feathers by gesturing that there was no danger, for he’d not loaded a lead ball, but when these potential customers still seemed inclined to leave, the other trader recaptured their interest by pulling out a display of shiny swords.

  In the meantime, the older Frenchman had arisen and stept up to the counter. “My apologies, mistress,” he said silkily. “I did not mean to insult you by associating you with the lying, thieving, lawless swine who are the English.”

  If he was hoping to win me over by insulting our common enemy, I’m afraid I disappointed him. As stated, I’ve ne’er cared for politics, and I care e’en less for smooth-talking sales pitches from unscrupulous traders.

  When I failed to respond, the priest spoke up from the shadows, his accent thick. “But you not say how you come to be here, my child. If you are captive by these men, we shall, of co
urse, do what we must to secure your release.”

  If I have no use for politics, I have an active antipathy towards religion. Religious wars are a way of life in Ireland, and my father’s family had, for generations, derived great financial gain by squeezing out the Catholics, who make up the bulk of the population. All I know of priests is what my father always said—they’re the devil’s doers on earth, determined to steal the souls, not to mention the worldly goods, of all folk simple-minded enough to listen to them. I vividly recall the glee with which Father repeatedly described the burning of a priest he’d witnessed as a child.

  I should add that my grandmother was an ardent Catholic all her days. I caught her once on her knees with a rosary, and, crying, she made me swear not to tell no one, lest my father throw her from his house. “Keep this wee secret, Katie,” she begged, “and I’ll say an Ave fer ye ev’ry day I live.” I knew not what an “Ave” was, but I loved my gran and was happy to share a secret with her. It made me feel special, right up to the day she died, when I discovered she’d made similar pacts with every member of our family. It turned out everyone knew she was Catholic—e’en Father.

  My point is I had reason to be wary of priests, and I smiled coldly at the one before me. “No, sir, I did not say how I came to be here, nor do I see why I should. Surely my affairs are my own.”

  The Frenchmen looked at one another, puzzled. The older one, handsome in his grizzled way, once again tried the smile that obviously worked with most women. “I hope we’ve not offended you, mistress, but we’ve ne’er seen a white woman this far from civilization, and we assumed, quite naturally, you are being held against your will. If we may be of any assistance . . .”

  “I am not a captive,” I said firmly. “Nor do I require any assistance. I thank you for your concern but would ask that you not trouble yourselves on my account.”