The Spirit Keeper

by K. B. Laugheed

  “He not tell you he die on Journey?” I asked slowly.

  Hector continued to stare to the west. “No.” He suddenly turned his eyes to me. “Did he tell you?”

  “Same time he tell you.” I pondered for a moment as Hector turned his face away again. “You not think, not ask him—does his Vision show you two returning to your people?”

  “I thought to ask,” Hector said sharply, “but I chose not to. No man should know the time and place of his own death.”

  I sighed. Whether I wanted to know or not, I was now keenly aware of the precise time and place of my own death—after all, I had experienced it a dozen times in my dreams. Alas that my time and place had come and gone without bothering to take me with it! Now, as humiliating as it was to have to force this angry, unhappy man to let me stay with him, the truth was, as Syawa recently assured me, I simply had no choice. I had nowhere else to go.

  Nor was I the only one with no choice. I considered my companion and the loneliness that loomed before him—well, it was unimaginable. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, it would be very difficult, if not impossible, for him to proceed on his perilous journey and successfully arrive at his extremely distant destination by himself. Suddenly I understood he needed me every bit as much as I needed him.

  “Hear me,” I said softly, “I know this is bad for you. It is bad for me, too. All I have now is he say I must go to your people. So you must take me with you.”

  Hector glanced at me, his eyelids heavy, his mouth twisted in a terrible frown, his nostrils flared. He said nothing, but his doleful gaze spoke volumes. He lowered his eyes to the canoe and shook his head. “It is too far, too dangerous. I cannot promise your safety.”

  “No, but he can.” Hector’s eyes shot up to my face and I decided to build a fire from this spark of a response. “Hector, you not see—he is not gone! How is he gone? He is here!” I put a hand on my heart, thinking of Gran and her hovering relatives. “He is always here, watching o’er us.”

  Hector’s frown melted into uncertainty, then puzzlement, then a dark and naked fear. His eyes narrowed as he said in a low, tense voice, “He gave you his ?”

  It sounded like a statement, but it was clearly a question. In either case, I did not understand the word Hector used. I knew I’d heard the word before, or a word very much like it, but I could not recall exactly what the word meant. I was sure it had something to do with spiritual things, and I deduced it must mean something like “sacred vow.” I was certain that was it. Hector was asking if Syawa had given me his sacred vow, and tho’ Syawa did not, perhaps, use that exact word, his intent was beyond doubt—he said I would live with his people.

  “Yes,” I said to Hector, lifting my chin to meet his gaze confidently. “Yes, of course.”

  Hector’s narrowed eyes narrowed e’en further as he studied me. Then he abruptly nodded, shifted his eyes to the river, and put his paddle back into the water. He slowly turned our craft and began paddling steadily upstream. He would not meet my eyes further, so I turned ’round and put my paddle into the water. Remembering all Syawa had taught me, I handled the paddle well enough, and we actually began moving forward.

  Looking back on that moment, I shudder to realize just how stupid I was, how naïve, how blissfully unaware of all the things I did not know. I said, “Yes—yes, of course,” as if I understood Hector’s question perfectly, as if I knew exactly what I was talking about. But I did not know—I did not know! The only thing I knew for certain was that there was no place for me back in the world of my family. I was dead to them. The person who had once lived with them was dead to me. I was someone else altogether now.

  I was Syawa’s Creature of Fire and Ice.

  ~18~

  THE THING I REMEMBER most from the days immediately following Syawa’s death is pain—huge, rolling waves of excruciating pain. Pain from the loss, pain from the loneliness, pain from uncertainty, pain from struggling to understand, pain from paddling. So much pain from paddling.

  As we slowly made our way upstream, Hector and I strove to work together, to communicate with one another. He oft yelled at me, demanding I hold the paddle this way or that, constantly criticizing my efforts and ne’er being satisfied with the results. Quickly exhausted, I must soon ask him to land the canoe to let me relieve myself, and when I jumped from the canoe before he did, he screamed furiously. Only after he made it clear with wild gestures I was never, ever to get out of the canoe first did I realize he was thinking of what happened when Syawa jumped from the canoe, and he did not want the same thing to happen to me.

  I sat on the shore with my arms wrapt ’round my legs, my head upon my knees, unwilling to look at Hector as he paced back and forth. I asked why he kept hollering at me and told him I could not understand his words. Because he also had trouble understanding me, I must repeat myself several times, then ask him to repeat himself, and only through this laborious process did I figure out he was merely telling me to switch sides with the paddle to avoid straining myself unnecessarily.

  But there was no way to avoid straining myself. Tho’ he was amazingly adept at choosing the channel with least resistance, I was wholly unaccustomed to this particular form of physical labor, which meant I immediately shredded every muscle in my arms, shoulders, neck, and back. Indeed, the challenge of paddling was almost as severe as the challenge of accepting Syawa’s sudden disappearance from my life.

  Hector expressed little sympathy for my suffering, but, then again, I expressed little sympathy for his. Whene’er he wasn’t yelling at me, I sat in the front of the canoe, staring straight ahead, feeling utterly alone in all the world. Blinded by my own thoughts and feelings, I scarce remembered Hector e’en existed, much less that he was sitting not eight feet behind me.

  My thoughts and feelings were completely consumed by Syawa. Did he truly have supernatural powers? Was such a thing possible? I wanted to believe it, and I was sorely tempted to believe it, but part of me always resisted, part of me always wondered, part of me always reasoned it away. He was a shrewd man—this I knew—and, as I myself had experienced, he was keenly capable of reading people and making intimate connections. But was he able to “see” events from afar? Was he able to “know” what the future would bring? Surely no man could do that. And yet . . .

  I knew how close I’d come to dying in my parents’ house. And I knew Syawa was offering me a chance to start o’er with a life of meaning and purpose. More than anything, I knew he loved me and I loved him. But I did not understand why he had to leave me. I did not understand what “gift” he expected me to bring to his people. And I did not understand why he suggested I was meant to be with Hector, not with him.

  It’s not that I didn’t care for Hector. For all his bluster, Hector was a decent fellow, capable of great loyalty and depth of feeling. But he just wasn’t the sort of man who would e’er appeal to me. He was bold and brash and belligerent and self-obsessed. As well-formed as he was, he was used to getting whate’er he wanted, and I preferred men like Syawa, who had to work to be noticed and were less likely to be surrounded by eager young girls. I had no desire to compete for someone’s attention and, besides, Hector didn’t e’en like me and had made his views plain enough on several occasions. The more I thought about it, the more I decided Syawa’s deathbed declaration that I was meant for Hector was, frankly, offensive. Hector certainly required no one to procure ladies for him, and I did not appreciate feeling as if I had been deliberately procured.

  I concluded Syawa’s final wish was simply that—a wish—which would expediently resolve the rather messy situation left by his untimely demise. He did not want to leave me in the lurch, nor did he want to abandon his lifelong companion; naturally he hoped we might find comfort in one another.

  We did not.

  Once I got the hang of what I was supposed to do with my paddle, we traveled in silence, speaking only to convey essential informati
on. Hector occasionally gave me paddling advice, and I told him when I needed to relieve myself. In the evenings we said nothing, avoiding eye contact. We performed our chores the way I once saw a pendulum clock perform in Boston—the brass disc swinging relentlessly back and forth, back and forth, heedless of anything going on in the world ’round it.

  On the first night after Syawa died, we did have one brief conversation. Rather than set up our lean-to as Syawa had done, Hector made a shelter by pulling the canoe far up the bank, rolling it onto its side, and bracing it with the paddles. After we ate, I began unrolling my bearskin under the canoe, eager to rest my weary muscles, but Hector stopt me.

  “You slept last night,” he said bluntly, “and I did not. Tonight you must watch first. I will get up halfway through the night. Then you can sleep.”

  I was astonished. “Must one of us always be awake?”

  “One of us always has been awake,” he said as he spread his own sleeping fur under the canoe. “You are the only one who has slept all night every night.” He rolled himself into his fur.

  “But . . . but what I watch for?” I asked, suddenly very aware of the vast darkness surrounding our tiny circle of light.

  “Bears, panthers, wolves,” Hector mumbled from within his fur. “People who might harm us. If anything threatens our camp, wake me.”

  As Hector’s breathing slowed immediately into sleep, I looked at the vast darkness with wide eyes. All this time Syawa and Hector had been taking turns watching o’er me, and I didn’t e’en know it, nor did it occur to me such watchfulness was required. Once again, I felt like a fool. I crawled to Hector’s pile of belongings to pull out the French hatchet. I clutched that hatchet to my chest for hours, jumping at every rustle in the darkness. I kept the fire well-stoked and kept myself company by crying.

  I soon learnt I might as well stay awake half the night because when I did sleep, I did naught but dream of Syawa. Every time Hector poked me with a stick in the morning, which is how he woke me, I jerked upright, startled, torn from some deep, deep dream discussion with Syawa. I did not mention these nocturnal conversations to Hector because I did not mention anything to Hector, but they always stuck with me for a good part of the day, giving me much to think about as I paddled.

  In spite of the comforting companionship of those dreams, I still broke into tears almost as regularly as that clock pendulum used to swing. Whilst we were paddling it did not matter that I cried, either because Hector did not notice or did not care, but in our camp he was discomforted by my regular breakdowns.

  “Why are you crying?” I recall him asking one evening in exasperation.

  Surprised I must explain why a woman with a broken heart cries, I tried to shrug, but my shoulders were so stiff and sore I couldn’t e’en do that. I whimpered that I was in pain and showed him how the blisters on my hands had popt and oozed, leaving my palms as little more than two huge, open sores.

  “Does crying help?” he demanded.

  I admitted that it didn’t, then cried all the more.

  • • •

  I should mention at this point that tho’ I have perhaps made it sound as if Syawa, Hector, and I were alone in a vast, deserted wilderness, such was ne’er the case. The truth is we frequently encountered other people as we hiked through the forest, sometimes stopping to exchange information, sometimes merely acknowledging each other’s presence, and sometimes steering clear of others altogether. I have not mentioned this aspect of my travels primarily because I, myself, ne’er interacted with strangers and my thoughts were always so preoccupied with my own situation that I took little note of the predicaments of others.

  Whilst Hector and I paddled up the Great River, however, we encountered other people almost constantly. The Great River, it seemed, was the main thoroughfare through the continent, and rare was the hour when we did not pass some habitation, campsite, or fellow canoeists. Hector sometimes had trouble finding a campsite not already occupied or situated so close to others as to make him uncomfortable.

  In the past, of course, Syawa was the one to speak with strangers, whilst Hector hung back with his menacing scowl. Now it was up to Hector to respond to those who hailed us, and he did not accept this new responsibility with enthusiasm. At first he tried glaring and waving people off, but we were, after all, a very unusual pair, and everyone who saw us was naturally curious. Every single stranger stared, most chattered, and some e’en followed us, shouting repeatedly for us to stop. A few canoes pulled alongside us, the strangers interrogating Hector as they stared at me.

  I ne’er got involved in these exchanges but thought Hector made things more difficult than need be. Whereas Syawa was always open and pleasant, perfectly willing to go into the whole story of his Vision, Hector tried to share as little information as possible and get away as quickly as he could. I knew the reason he didn’t want to talk was that he was loath to speak of the death of our friend, but I believe many people wondered what he was hiding.

  One evening just at dusk three strangers appeared at our camp, asking if they could share our fire. I could see Hector despised the idea, but his savage commitment to hospitality precluded a refusal. I divided our supper five ways, using large leaves as plates, working silently, feeling as if Syawa was watching o’er my shoulder. I wanted to make him proud. After our meal I told the strangers my basic story in gestures, which they attended with great interest. They stopt me as soon as I told about the snake biting Syawa, because they could tell from Hector’s ragged hair and mass of shallow wounds how the story ended.

  Hector took the first watch that night, then failed to wake me for my turn so that when morning came, I was well-rested and he was more irritable than ever.

  We followed the men to their destination, which turned out to be our destination as well—a sizable Indian community on the east side of the Great River. For several miles we had passed numerous small settlements on either side of the river—sometimes a hut or two, sometimes a cluster of twenty or more. I e’en saw some wooden houses built in the Old World style. When our companions turned their large canoe to the eastern shore, I was surprised to see an actual dock, and tho’ I could not at first see much of the town itself because the terrain rose well away from the river, the fact that the bank was covered with dozens of canoes, rafts, and other boats suggested this place served as a trade center as much as a permanent town.

  We reached the place just about noon. There was much shouting as we neared, as people were gathering on the high ridge to watch our approach. I was terribly self-conscious, but there was nothing I could do to stop attracting attention, so I just put my head down and paddled ’til the canoe bumped on the bank. When Hector jumped out to pull it out of the water, he caught my eye. “This will be very hard,” he warned quietly, his jaw clenched.

  Before I could ask what he meant, I began to find out.

  One of the men from the night before stood on the ridge and shouted something, then began to wail—a high-pitched keening that pierced the ears and echoed mournfully across the river valley. Others picked up the cry, and in a moment the air was vibrating with anguished howling. I looked at Hector, who was ashen, stricken, and trembling from head to toe. He fell to his knees in the mud as he, too, lifted his head and keened.

  It was Syawa.

  I immediately understood Syawa and Hector must have stopt here on their way eastward, as they stopt at other cities. The lamentation was in Syawa’s honor, and it swirled ’round like an endless whirlwind of human desolation. It roiled and rumbled from earth to sky and back again, with me and Hector in the middle, waiting for the horrible storm to pass.

  Not knowing what to do, I knelt beside Hector with my head down, his words echoing in my head: “This will be very hard. This will be very hard.”

  • • •

  My memory of the ensuing events is hazy, but I’m sure we were given food and lodging, as was always the cus
tom. Immediately the inhabitants of this place began preparing for the typical Indian gathering, which included food, dance, and a recounting of our adventures. As the day wore on, more and more people arrived, and I could see Hector was immeasurably miserable, clearly dreading the evening e’en more than I. When I managed to ask him, at one point, what was expected of us, he just grumbled that I should know—we had done it before.

  By evening the crowd had become a colossal mob, the likes of which I ne’er saw—not e’en in Philadelphia nor Boston. Whereas we had previously attracted a crowd of a couple hundred individuals, what I saw gathering on the encircling hillsides and in crafts on the river was a collection of as many as a thousand. I also saw numerous Europeans in the crowd, their fluffy beards, white linen shirts, and knee-length breeches offering a stark contrast to the mass of semi-naked savages. The Indians in this place came in every size, shape, color, and configuration. They settled ’round us like an ocean of people, yet maintained a respectful distance so that no one was closer than about thirty feet to the mat upon which Hector and I sat.

  As usual, official speeches were made. One of the Europeans spoke—a Spaniard, I deduced, tho’ he spoke the local Indian tongue. Of course I understood nothing, and I believe Hector not only did not understand what was being said, but did not care. Tho’ he had painted himself, as usual, he sat near me in an unhappy daze, staring blankly into the fire.

  Eventually some sort of Holyman had his say, and because he used the general language of gestures as well as his own tongue, I understood he was telling about the previous visit of the Seer from a Distant Land, about his Vision and Journey, and how the people here had wisht the travelers well. Tonight, the Holyman explained, the rest of the story would be told.

  The crowd hushed. The silence spread from the center outward, ’til gradually all was still. Hector looked at me expectantly.