The Spirit Keeper

by K. B. Laugheed

  But later, after we had eaten one of those nosy ducks and Hector was unrolling his sleeping fur, he suddenly turned to me. Because Hector ne’er initiated a conversation unless he had some vital information to convey, I stopt poking the fire to look at him expectantly. He seemed reluctant to speak. He forced himself. “Will you talk with him tonight, do you think?”

  I shrugged, blushing scarlet. “I always do,” I said quietly.

  Hector nodded, his eyes averted. “Will you tell him . . .” he said haltingly, “will you tell him I’m grateful?” His voice broke on the last word.

  I knew it would bother Hector for me to cry, so I tried very hard to hold back the tears. “Yes, I will tell him,” I said in a shaky voice.

  Hector nodded again and rolled himself into his fur, his back to me. I tried to cry quietly as I built up the fire, but I’m sure he heard me. I could tell by his breathing he didn’t fall asleep for a long, long time.

  Thereafter Hector seemed calmer somehow, less tense, more comfortable with me. When he had a chance to catch another duck the very next evening, he did so, saying I’d done such a fine job of cooking the first one, he was hungry for more.

  Stunned by the compliment, I plucked the new duck happily as I explained my family always kept birds—ducks, chickens, turkeys—so I had plenty of experience cooking them.

  Hector wasn’t sure how my family could keep birds the way Indians keep dogs. “Do they follow you in day and sleep with you at night?” he asked, trying not to smile.

  “No!” I giggled, then went on to explain about pens and roosts. He was interested to learn we had a steady supply of eggs, intrigued by the notion we could butcher and eat a bird whene’er we wanted, without hunting. I then told him about a pet chicken I had when we lived in Boston—a pretty white hen I called Fluffy.

  “You gave a bird a name?” he asked, unable to suppress his smile any longer.

  “Oh, yes!” With him supplying any words I needed, I told all about Fluffy—how she hatched eggs for other hens, and how cute the chicks were when they peeked out from under her. When Hector chuckled at my pantomimes, I jumped up and acted out my mother’s favorite way of killing a bird—grabbing it by the legs, flopping its head on the ground, putting her foot on the head, and yanking the body off. I acted out what happened one day when she killed a dozen birds to sell at market—pop, pop, pop, pop. Each time she threw a body down, it got up and ran ’round so that our garden was full of headless birds running into each other, their wings flapping frantically. Finally, one by one, they stopt and stood still for a moment, as if surprised to realize they were dead. Then they fell over.

  As I ran ’round our fire acting out this scene, Hector laughed more than I have e’er heard anyone laugh about anything. He laughed so hard I thought he would choke; he laughed ’til tears rolled down his cheeks. I laughed with him, working the story for all it was worth, well aware that this was the first time I had heard him laugh since Syawa died. What a joy it was to see him as something other than angry, gloomy, or sad!

  Later, when he was unrolling his bedding, he glanced at me, still smiling. “You have learnt how to talk,” he said, clearly pleased.

  I nodded, ready to thank him for all his help, but before I could, he spoke again. “It is good he is teaching you in your sleep.” I drew in my breath, but Hector was still smiling. He lay down, enwrapping himself in his fur.

  I sighed. All this time Hector had been teaching me to talk, but now he was giving the credit to his dead friend and there was naught I could say to convince him otherwise.

  I sighed again.

  ~22~

  ABOUT THIS TIME the Misery turned north, and on one side of that turn was the largest village since the Great River. As we walked up from the riverbank, I felt again the familiar discomfort at being surrounded by so many gawking strangers, but this time, with Hector walking beside me, I no longer felt so vulnerable, so alone. He had fastened some duck feathers in his hacked-off hair, and the bright colors emphasized his strikingly handsome features, which helped draw attention away from the wonder of my red hair, white skin, and blue eyes. For that I was grateful.

  At this village, as always, we were warmly received, and tho’ we were forced to endure, once again, the public outpouring of sympathy that always accompanied the discovery of Syawa’s death, Hector and I had endured it so many times we no longer wilted beneath this public sharing of our very private pain. In fact, when the keening began at the Big Bend village, I remember exchanging a glance with Hector for just a fraction of a second before we bowed our heads, and I felt a bond I’d ne’er felt before. It wasn’t just my sorrow anymore—it was ours. And that’s when a strange thing happened.

  I discovered the grief did not hurt so much when it was no longer mine alone.

  Later, as the local speaker wrapt up our introduction, I remember exchanging another glance with Hector. This time I felt a wave of encouragement, support, and trust. I had long since vowed ne’er to let him down the way I did at the Trade Center. Knowing him as I did now, I understood Syawa was the storyteller and all along Hector participated in the performances in much the same way I participated in swimming; it was simply something he had to do.

  By the time we reached the Big Bend, I was getting the hang of this storytelling business. I knew enough now to wait under a cloak whilst Hector gestured the summary of Syawa’s Vision, their Journey, and their arrival at my family’s house. I waited as he acted out his death-struggle with the bald savage, and I waited as he showed how he and Syawa slowly climbed the stairs. Then I jumped up, pretending to point a weapon at him as he pretended to point his bloody knife at me. The crowd always gasped when I appeared.

  It was at the Big Bend village that Hector and I truly connected during that critical moment in our tale. Our eyes locked and I felt again all those feelings of terror and despair, but I also felt all the trust and affection we had built in the ensuing months. It was a strange sensation, to feel so many diametrically opposed emotions at exactly the same time. I remember sort of smiling at him as we stood brandishing our imaginary weapons, and I remember seeing him sort of smile back at me in the exact same way. There was a new unity between us, an interdependence I’d ne’er experienced. We had become a true team, two oxen working together to haul a heavy load.

  I went on to tell the rest of the story. The audience listened with rapt attention as I described hiking the eastern forest, learning to live in the wild. To them, I must have seemed some sort of other-worldly creature who dropt out of the sky and must learn to be human, and, to some degree, I suppose that’s exactly what I was. When I got to the part where the Seer was bitten and the canoe went spinning off into the river, I screamed and spun ’round the fire as Hector pantomimed swimming after me. We made several circuits, during which the crowd went wild, roaring for him to save me, which, of course, he always did.

  By this time I had e’en become resigned to the resolution of our story, wherein I became Syawa’s Spirit Keeper. Tho’ I knew ’twas not true, I also knew that without that ending, the story was just too tragic to tell.

  After our performance at the Big Bend village, I did not glance Hector’s way again ’til after he sang the traveler’s song and the community dancing began. At that point men were gathering ’round him as women were gathering ’round me, and our eyes met across the crowd. He gave me one of his half-smiles and I smiled back, glowing inside.

  At that moment I wisht Syawa’s Spirit truly was inside me, or at least watching from above. I knew he would be pleased his friends had finally befriended each other.

  • • •

  Hector and I had turned a corner in more than just the direction of the river. Tho’ we still remained mostly silent during the days, it was now a companionable silence, a comfortable one, and during the evenings, more and more, we enjoyed pleasant conversation.

  I told various stories to amuse him, but no
thing entertained him as much as genuine descriptions of my early life. I told him about the sweet brown cow with a crumpled horn who always mooed plaintively whene’er we were late to milk her. Hector looked skeptical from across the campfire. “This cow of yours,” he asked, “it was like those we see sometimes drinking from the river?” He was referring, of course, to the great wild cows of America, the buffalo.

  I admitted Bossie wasn’t nigh as big as a buffalo cow, but I pantomimed how big she was and assured him she seemed huge to a twelve-year-old girl who was milking her. I described how her wet, nasty tail smacked my face if she thought I tugged her teat too hard, but how she always licked me with her big, rough tongue to thank me when I was done.

  Hector shook his head in amazement, asking why I took her milk from her.

  “To drink!” I exclaimed, then told about cream and butter and all the delicious cheeses we made from milk. He listened to my babbling descriptions, his eyes shining with the same rapt attention our audiences always displayed, and on his face he wore the same half-smile I’d seen whene’er Syawa told a story. He was a wonderful audience.

  But if I say Hector was interested in my stories of our cows, I cannot begin to describe the wonder with which he attended my explanation of how and why we gelded our bulls.

  • • •

  And so the evenings passed as pleasantly as the days. Once we turned north, the wind was behind us, which meant we fairly flew upon the water. Occasionally it rained, but unless there was lightning, we kept moving. When weather did stop us, we sat on the riverbank under our upturned canoe, each concentrating on handiworks. He made arrows and fish spears; I sewed. I oft wisht I had a book to read. Sometimes we chatted, but mostly we kept our thoughts to ourselves, tho’ I suspect our thoughts went to the same place more often than not.

  I remembered watching Hector and Syawa sit together like this, remembered how amazed I was by their almost supernatural connection. I had ne’er seen nothing like it, but now, because Hector fully believed Syawa’s Spirit was living inside me, he was letting his guard down, relaxing, interacting. ’Twas thrilling to experience e’en a faint reflection of the deep bond between those two men.

  Mind you, I have had deep and abiding friendships in my life. I had a friend in Philadelphia—Mary—who was like a twin from whom I had been separated at birth. Whene’er we were together, we chattered endlessly about everything and nothing. Her father owned a stable, and the two of us rode together whene’er we could slip away from our families. We rode bareback, both on one horse. ’Tis a wonder to me now we did not break our necks on those rides, for we were oft thrown and were always at the mercy of the large beasts, who trotted, cantered, or galloped as they pleased. Mary’s father encouraged us to ride, for it was good for the stabled horses to get fresh air and exercise, but we were whipt more than once for being careless with other people’s property when we ran a horse too hard or brought it back limping.

  Some of the happiest moments in my early life occurred when I had my arms wrapt ’round that dear girl as we rode along the Delaware River.

  My point is that I knew how good it felt to have a true friend, but any experience I e’er had with friendship paled beside the bond I was beginning to enjoy with Hector. Unfortunately, my good feelings were riddled with guilt, as I knew the only reason Hector was nice to me was that he believed some part of me was his own childhood friend. I tried to temper my guilt by reminding myself it did Hector good to have Syawa back in his life, if only in this once-removed way. I assured myself it was a good thing I was doing, that by letting him believe Syawa’s Spirit was residing in me I wasn’t lying to him so much as offering him a way to cope with his awful loss. If I just happened to benefit from the deception by stepping right into the friendship the men had establisht and enjoying it for myself—well, that was not my intention. I ne’er meant to take Syawa’s place in Hector’s life, but once I felt it happening, it felt good, too good to stop.

  • • •

  Back at the Big Bend village, the elders had warned of a band of ruffians somewhere to the north. At first we little heeded this warning, inasmuch as the danger was far away, but because the winds were with us and we were now working together like wheels on a cart, Hector and I made excellent progress, traveling great distances every day. As a result, the threat to the north loomed e’er closer. Soon every traveler we encountered could speak of naught but the ruffians.

  A week or more after passing the Big Bend, we stopt at a village where the people were so distraught they scarce had any interest in our story. They said a group of fishermen had headed north two months earlier and were now long overdue. A search party had gone to find the missing men, but no word had yet come from either group.

  Hector processed this news grimly before insisting we must go on. He was determined to reach a certain village by winter, and that village, he assured me, was still a long, long way away. But the farther north we traveled, the more uneasy he became. Each afternoon he looked for a small settlement or occupied campsite—exactly the sorts of places he previously avoided. Hector did not like camping with strangers, but he liked e’en less the risk we might be taking if we continued to camp alone.

  Most people held us off with spears or nocked arrows ’til we explained who we were and what we wanted. Then they told the story we’d already heard—a band of miscreants up north was harassing travelers, hunters, fishermen, taking whate’er they wanted. When asked about the search party sent from the downstream village, most people said they had seen canoes or talked with the searchers, but that was all anyone knew.

  At one small settlement we met a man who said he had escaped the ruffians. He said their leader was a young man expelled from a village far to the north, and this ne’er-do-well had attracted a band of outcasts from many neighboring villages. The trouble-makers now roamed the countryside, killing or enslaving everyone they met.

  This news so vexed Hector he said we must stay where we were ’til the threat to travelers was somehow resolved. He, like everyone else, reckoned the missing fishermen and/or the search party would be returning any day now with news of a peaceful reconciliation.

  I wasn’t so sure. I could see the idea of adding months to our journey made Hector as miserable as a swarm of biting flies, and I felt awful, knowing that, were it not for me, he would be living a life of comfort and ease back home. I told him and the people of that settlement the story of Robin Hood—another social outcast ’round whom a band of criminals collected. When Hector understood Robin Hood’s men robbed and harassed travelers for many years, he decided we’d best just keep moving.

  So off we went at dawn each day, paddling as if the Hounds of Hell were baying at our backs, covering incredible distances, breathing a huge sigh of relief each afternoon when we found someone to camp with.

  One day we realized that whereas we had, up to this point, regularly met canoes coming or going on the river, suddenly there was no one. No one. The entire day we met not a single traveler. That had ne’er happened during the entire time we paddled up the Misery.

  What a deliverance it seemed that afternoon when we found an extended family group just wrapping up a hunting expedition! There were eighteen of them, including four women and six children. With all their weapons trained upon us, they flatly refused our request to join them ’til Hector told them I was a Spirit Keeper. Then they welcomed us, presuming, I suppose, my supernatural powers would protect us all from earthly peril. Far from providing protection, however, my presence only increased our vulnerability, for almost as soon as we joined them, my monthly began. Thus I found myself isolated with the women whilst Hector conferred with the men.

  When we arrived, they had been packing to leave the next morning, but Hector convinced them to remain by pointing out that if they did not finish drying their meat, much of it would be ruined and the Spirit of the Buffalo would be displeased. Reluctant to offend the Buffalo Spirit, the h
unters stayed to finish their work. Hector helped, hoping to convince them to stay through my time, but each day the men were increasingly agitated, and after three days, they would wait no longer. They left some meat in exchange for Hector’s help and pushed their heavily laden canoes into the current.

  Hector was stone-faced as he watched them depart, but I knew he was feeling wretched. I, myself, could not have felt worse, keenly aware I was the one putting us in danger. At least if we could travel, we could hope to out-paddle any pursuers. As it was, we were sitting ducks. And, thanks to the ridiculous rules of his people, I couldn’t e’en talk to Hector about it, to ease his mind.

  As he paced the riverbank, anxiously trying to look in all directions at the same time, I finally decided this unique circumstance must surely merit an exemption to his hard-and-fast separation requirements, so I urged him to let us get in the canoe and go, regardless of my condition. I explained my people ne’er observed monthly prohibitions and nothing bad e’er happened to us. When Hector refused e’en to acknowledge he heard me, I was infuriated. I ranted and raved in English, calling him every foul name I knew.

  Eventually I gave up and sat by the fire glaring at the flames, trying to convince myself that all the rumors we’d heard were surely exaggerations. People tend to let their imaginations run wild, and my sense was that the “band of ruffians” was probably nothing more than a group of young men flexing their muscles.

  When we lived in Philadelphia, my older brothers became well-known as hooligans, and the more people feared them, the more they swaggered and bullied. What started as petty theft and minor vandalism soon escalated into grand larceny and deliberate arson. As their reputation for violence grew, so did their power and influence, and before long the townspeople were actually paying my brothers and their gang not to cause trouble. That was the main reason James stayed in Philadelphia when the rest of us moved to the wilderness—he had a good thing going and didn’t want to give it up.