Ghost Fire

by Wilbur Smith

  Theo craned his head out of the opening of the tree trunk, and almost bumped heads with Moses stooping to peer in. Four more Abenaki stood behind him. They wore bearskins, and soft hide shoes with the fur turned inward. They had sticks tied to their feet.

  Moses took in the sight of Theo and Mgeso, wrapped up together. “I was worried about you in the storm. But I see you have found a resting place, Ahoma.”

  •••

  The moon beat the tempo of the seasons.

  At the Greeting Moon, they welcomed the turning of the sun with feasting, singing and dancing. Days were dark and short. For Theo, raised in the tropics where one day ran much the same length as another, it was a strange and disconcerting time. For the Abenaki, it was a season of rest. They spent many hours in the longhouse, sitting around the fire telling stories. Theo struggled to understand, for they spoke of the deeds of their distant ancestors and those of their parents with the same familiarity, as if they had witnessed them all.

  More snow came with the Moose-hunting Moon. The Abenaki showed Theo how to make the strange snowshoes they used, bending green branches into circles and strapping them with crosspieces, so they could fasten them to their feet. In that way, they could skim over the thickest snow without sinking. The moose, mired in the snow, were easy prey. They picked cranberries, bright red and bullet-hard; they trapped beaver in the frozen ponds. Even in the depths of winter, they never went hungry.

  “The Bastaniak call this moon the ‘Hunger Moon,’” said the sachem. “But that is because they do not know how to live with the forest.”

  The days began to lengthen with the Sugar Moon, though snow still lay on the ground. The sap ran high in the trees, making their bark loose and supple. The Abenaki stripped it away in great sheets for their canoes and huts, always remembering to leave a small offering of tobacco among the roots as a token of thanks.

  But one tree in particular was the focus of their labor. This was the maple tree, whose sap they tapped for its sugar. They made a V-shaped cut in it with their tomahawks and drove in a wooden spike. The sap ran out down the spike and dripped into a birch-bark bucket below.

  “In the ancient times, the syrup flowed from the trees like water, all year round,” Moses told Theo. “It made the people fat and lazy. So the trickster god made the sap thin and watery, except in winter. Then, when the crops are dead and the game is scarce, it flows as it did before.”

  On freezing nights, they left the sap out in shallow trays. In the mornings, they picked off the crust of ice that had formed and were left with thick syrup: amber and deliciously sweet. When they mixed it with bear fat and dipped their meat in it, Theo licked every drop from his fingers.

  Theo said a prayer for Nathan, the friend whose dying wish had brought him here. It also made him think of Abigail. What had become of her? How far away was she? The Abenaki had no maps, and their names for the mountains and rivers meant nothing to Theo. She might be twenty miles away or two hundred: it would make no difference. She might as well be in India. He wondered again if she had married the farmer her parents had chosen for her. He hoped she was happy.

  He was content with Mgeso. A change had come over her that he did not understand, an inner peace. Sometimes he caught her smiling to herself. But if he woke late at night under a full moon, his mind would drift back to the pool by the waterfall at Bethel. And wonder.

  •••

  As the Planting Moon approached, they left their winter camp and returned to the village they had left in the autumn. The sachem forbade storytelling, for the tribe needed all their energies focused on sowing the new season’s crops. Days lengthened. It was a time of buds and sunshine. Mgeso had never seemed so radiant.

  One day, when they were planting corn on the bottomland near the river, she took his hand and put it on her belly. Her eyes met his, bright and alive, answering his question before he had begun to ask it.

  “Yes,” she said. “Our child.”

  That night, Theo sat with her on the clifftops overlooking the village, pondering the strange currents of the world. His grandfather had been born in England, the son of a famous privateer. His father had been born in Africa to an Omani princess. He himself had been born in India, and now his son would grow up as an Abenaki.

  “Your heart is beating faster,” Mgeso said. Her head snuggled against his chest. “Are you worried?”

  “No.”

  “Happy?”

  Theo stroked her cheek. “Very happy.”

  Mgeso’s belly swelled as the corn ripened. Theo’s feelings swung between paternal pride, and anxiety about Mgeso’s wellbeing. If she so much as cracked a fingernail he was consumed with worry for the baby. He tried not to let it show.

  He could not always be with her. When the Blueberry Moon rose, the men left the women in the fields and went back to the forests. Malsum led the hunting party. Theo had avoided him all winter, but now the sachem insisted that they must travel together.

  “There is no quarrel between you now,” he said. “You must fight together, not against each other.” But Theo remembered the bear in the thicket and was not so sure.

  They ranged across the land, further and further as spring edged into summer. They smeared themselves with fat to keep off the clouds of insects that fed on them voraciously. The game was plentiful, the forest abounding in fruits and berries. Malsum kept his distance.

  They were not the only people on the move that summer. They often encountered war bands from other tribes, armed and painted for battle, heading west. Some greeted the Abenaki warmly and shared food and news. Others passed with hurried steps and suspicious glares. A few had fresh scalps already tied to their belts. Theo could feel violence permeating the forest.

  One day the Abenaki came into some lowlands, where the river had spread into the forest and made dense marshes. Bubbles broke the black water, emitting an evil-smelling stench that reminded Theo of the slums of Black Town in Calcutta. The swamp was too shallow and tangled for their canoes. They carried the boats, keeping to the ridges that made a network of paths through the mire. In some places, even Malsum could not find a way, and they would have to wade waist-deep through the stinking mud and water. Flies clustered around them, more than Theo had ever seen.

  They camped on a muddy island in the marsh. Moses made an attempt to fish, but without luck. Theo wasn’t sure he wanted to eat anything that came out of those foul waters. Damp wood made their fire spit and throw off a noxious black smoke.

  Theo could not sleep. He sat on a rotting stump, talking with Moses.

  “Hard choices are coming,” Moses said. “The King of the Bastaniak and the King of the Blaumonak have made a great war.”

  “You mean the English and the French,” Theo said. Though it seemed natural to use Abenaki words for life in the forest, he could not get used to their names for European matters.

  “That is why so many tribes are on the move. The kings have summoned their allies to battle.” Moses picked away fragments of rotten wood and threw them into the water. “You know the Abenaki fight alongside the Blaumonak.” He cleared his throat to make the unfamiliar sound. “The French.”

  “I know.”

  “There is a man named Bichot. We are going to meet him. After we have traded for our furs, he will summon us to war. We will sing the war song, and raise the hatchet, and we will go.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Across the mountains there is a great lake. The French have a mighty fortress there. The English have gathered a great army to attack it. They say the war for all this land will be decided there.”

  Theo marveled that he could have come halfway round the world, and still find England and France trading blows on his doorstep. Was there nowhere on Earth you could escape?

  Moses watched him, his eyes pale circles in the night. “I know you are Abenaki now, Ahoma. But will you be able to fight against the people of your birth?”

  Theo thought of his parents. He thought of Constance. Fighting wit
h the French would betray every vow he had made to avenge them. Refusing would be to reject Mgeso and his unborn child.

  A light flashed in the darkness. Not the magic green of the fireflies, which he had grown used to, but a burst of flame. Theo threw himself to the ground, expecting a shot to fly overhead. But there had been no bang and no smoke: only a soft belching sound, and the smell of gas.

  The flame came again, this time in a different place. It seemed to be coming out of the ground itself.

  “What is that?” Theo breathed.

  “They are the ghost fires,” said Moses. “The souls of the dead who have not found peace. They lurk in these places to prey on the living.”

  Theo shivered. Though he had taken on many of the Abenaki customs, he had remained respectfully agnostic toward their spiritual beliefs. In that place, watching the eerie fires flare in the darkness, he felt he had lifted the curtain on another world.

  A chill went down his spine. He thought of the people he had loved, who had died too soon. His parents. Constance. Nathan. Were their spirits out there too, flickering in restless torment?

  They left the swamp the next day and entered a thick pine forest. Hardly any light penetrated the canopy; the air was damp and dim.

  Around mid-morning, Theo paused.

  “What is it?” Moses asked.

  “I smell something.” He sniffed the air, orienting himself to the scent as effortlessly as breathing. A year with the Abenaki had realigned his senses. In the dense forest, sound and smell were as important as sight.

  “An animal?”

  “No.”

  It was a smell he had known every day of his childhood—and now it was so alien he had almost not recognized it. He laughed out loud to find this echo of Madras suddenly in the American wilderness, then turned somber. It reminded him of his father.

  “I think it is coffee.”

  Unstrapping his tomahawk, he followed the scent. He heard the trickle of water, and the sound of raised voices. He crouched lower, using the woodcraft the Abenaki had taught him to make himself almost invisible as he followed the slope down toward a sluggish river.

  Half a dozen men sat around a campfire. A skinned rabbit roasted on a spit, and a kettle bubbled on a hot stone in the embers. Theo could feel the danger, like entering a den of wild animals. The men were dressed in furs and leather strapped with knives and hatchets. They had scarred skin, calloused fists, and faces that had been rearranged many times by violence. They kept their long-barreled rifles leaning against the trees in easy reach. They could not have seen him. If they had, he would be dead.

  They were speaking in French, though a rough, crude dialect far removed from what Theo’s tutor had taught him in Madras. One—a huge man in a bearskin cloak—was telling a story about a prostitute who had tried to cheat him. The men laughed as he described how he had taken his revenge.

  Suddenly the laughing stopped and the men had guns in their hands. Theo froze, but the guns were not pointing at him. Malsum had appeared. He walked out into the clearing. The Frenchmen did not seem surprised to see him. The guns were lowered. The big man rose and came to greet him.

  Theo slipped in with the rest of the Abenaki as they emerged from the forest behind Malsum. Now he could see the big Frenchman clearly. The black bearskin cloak clung to him with an aura of darkness, and he wore a string of sharp claws around his neck. There was a dreadful asymmetry about his face. Between the top of his head and the bottom, it looked like two halves of an orange that had been squashed carelessly back together. The lank, greasy hair combed over his scalp did not hide the livid bald patch beneath. There was blood on his hands from skinning the rabbit.

  He stank of death. Thinking of Moses’s story of the ghost fires, Theo considered that one of those vengeful spirits had come alive.

  “That is Bichot,” Moses whispered.

  Malsum embraced the Frenchman. Seeing the two together was like looking at a pair of wolves. Theo kept a safe distance and put his hand on the shaft of his tomahawk. Every man in the clearing had a weapon ready. The mistrust was almost palpable.

  The Frenchman’s gaze swept over the Abenaki. With his dark skin, piercings and shaved head, Theo looked no different from any of the others. Yet, by some base instinct, the trapper’s eyes settled on him.

  “Qui est-ce?” he snarled.

  “Bastaniak,” said Malsum.

  A skinning knife flashed in Bichot’s hand. With two strides, faster than blinking, he was in front of Theo with the blade moving toward his throat.

  Theo was faster. Metal clashed as his tomahawk caught Bichot’s knife so hard it was knocked out of the Frenchman’s hand. Arm extended, Theo held the tomahawk blade an inch from Bichot’s neck.

  “I am Abenaki,” said Theo, softly.

  He held his weapon poised for what seemed an eternity. His senses were so alive, he fancied he could hear a single pine needle dropping to the forest floor. He was aware of every man in the clearing: if his gun was loaded, if his finger was on the trigger, if his heart was beating faster in preparation for an attack. If Bichot had so much as blinked, he would have taken his head off.

  “He is Abenaki,” said Malsum, at last. “We have no quarrel.”

  The French trapper stepped back with a growl. From the smell of his breath, Theo guessed there was something stronger than coffee in his cup.

  “What is your name?” said Bichot. He spoke the Abenaki language like a native.

  “Ahoma of the Abenaki. Remember it.”

  Bichot bared his teeth. “One day, I will make you tell me your real name. You will scream it out as you beg me to kill you.”

  Theo smiled. “I will whisper it in your ear as the tip of my knife slides into your heart.”

  “Enough!” called Moses. “Did you come to trade insults with us or furs?”

  It broke the tension. The Frenchmen made space around their fire, and produced bottles of brandy from their baggage. Still, Theo kept a wary distance from Bichot as they settled down to business. The hides that the Abenaki had gathered during spring were presented, examined and haggled over. Despite himself, Theo found himself drawn in. The skills he had honed with the cotton-weavers and spice-merchants of Calcutta returned effortlessly as he bluffed, cajoled and persuaded the Frenchmen. It was harder than it had been in Bengal. The Frenchmen shared their food and pressed drink upon the Abenaki—who were not used to strong liquor—but every word and gesture betrayed the contempt they felt for the natives.

  Is this what I was like? Theo wondered, thinking about the English in India. It was hard to barter with a man who thought you little better than a dog. And the goods the French had brought to trade were derisory. Beads, which the Abenaki women prized, and little mirrors they could sew onto their clothes. There was tradecloth, which had started to replace the flax shirts that the Abenaki used to wear.

  Examining one parcel, Theo gave a cry of surprise. There was a weaver’s mark stamped in the corner of the cloth, a swirling Bengali letter, like an elephant’s tusk. He recognized it. It belonged to a weaver in Kasim Bazar, a stooped old man with thirteen children and a mustache that almost reached his chin. If Theo closed his eyes, he could see the house and the two tamarind trees outside. Perhaps he himself had purchased this very bale of cloth on one of his trips with Deegan, and it had moved through the trade arteries of the world to arrive in this remote place.

  Was there nowhere he could go to escape his past?

  •••

  Most of the pelts were traded for brandy. Theo tried to dissuade the Abenaki, but even Moses would not listen. They could not resist the lure of spirits. When the haggling was over, they got blind drunk. Theo, feeling Bichot’s presence, did not dare drink. He spent a miserable night clutching his tomahawk, pondering all the animals that had died so the Indians could have one night of dissolution.

  The next morning they set out together downriver. The Abenaki traveled in their bark canoes, nursing sore heads and wretched stomachs. The French followe
d in their bateaux, wide-bottomed craft made of white pine with sharp raised ends. They were good for transporting the furs they had acquired, but cumbersome and awkward to carry around the rapids. By the time they reached the village, four days later, the men were bruised and bad-tempered.

  The tribe came down to the river to greet them. Theo vaulted out of the canoe and splashed through the water to greet Mgeso.

  “You have grown,” he exclaimed. Her belly protruded so far he could hardly get his arms around her. He gave her a long, deep kiss. “I have missed you. Are you well?”

  “Everything is well.” She placed his hand on her stomach, as she had all those moons ago. Then it had been flat, with only the faintest swelling to betray the life growing inside. Now the bulging skin was swollen, like a ripe berry.

  A tremor went through his hand. Theo stared. “Was that . . . the child?”

  She nodded. “He is pleased to see his father.”

  “He?”

  “Only a boy could kick so hard.”

  He followed her back to the village. They sat side by side, while the tribe feasted and danced.

  But Theo could not forget his cares. Bichot and Malsum sat apart with the sachem and some of his other warriors, talking earnestly. Theo guessed they were discussing the coming war.

  Mgeso saw how his gaze kept drifting toward their fire. She knew what it meant. “Where do you stand? Are you still certain you are Abenaki?”

  “My loyalties are with you,” Theo reassured her. “And with our son.”

  When the dancing had finished, she took him to their bed. As he undressed, Mgeso reached between his legs and began stroking him intimately. After weeks away, Theo’s body responded eagerly—but he held himself back. “Is it safe? For the baby?”

  Mgeso smiled. “Even with your great manhood, you will not disturb him.”

  She rolled over. Theo entered her from behind, nestling into the curves of her body, like a nut in its shell. He reached around her, cupping the full-grown breasts and squeezing her engorged nipples until she moaned. “You were gone too long,” she gasped.