Ghost Fire

by Wilbur Smith

  “Then let me show you what you were missing.”

  •••

  Theo was cold when he woke. Mgeso had gone. He pulled the blanket tighter, smelling her musk on the fur. Perhaps she had taken a trip to the river to wash.

  He wondered if their activity the night before had stirred the baby into coming. Surely she would have woken him if that was happening. But would she? Abenaki women gave birth in the forest, surrounded by other women. She would have known that telling Theo would only make him worry.

  He rose. Dawn had broken early. Most of the Abenaki were resting after the night’s feast, though a few of the children were digging with sticks in the soft earth by the river. Theo watched them playing, imagining his own son among them one day.

  Mgeso was not there.

  He returned to the stockade. Birds circled in the sky. He felt the same unease as he had watching the ghost fires in the swamp, of an evil spirit stalking him. He tried to shake off the dread.

  He heard someone behind him. But it was not Mgeso: it was Moses. He was limping, clutching a gash that bled down his thigh.

  “What happened?”

  “Bichot and Malsum have taken Mgeso,” the Abenaki gasped. “I tried to stop them, but they were too strong.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “To the cliffs.”

  Theo was naked, apart from his loincloth. He did not even have his knife. He should have gone back and fetched his tomahawk, or a gun. But fear for Mgeso—and the child inside her—drove out all reason.

  He ran up the path to the cliffs that overlooked the village. Footprints showed on the dew-damp ground. Theo thought he registered Mgeso’s bare feet, pressed deeper into the soil by the extra weight she was carrying, Malsum’s splayed toes, and Bichot’s hobnailed boots. He ran on, vaulting over rocks, bounding up the slope like a mountain lion. Moses, barely able to walk, was left far behind.

  Theo came onto the open ground at the top of the cliffs. The rocks there were broken and uneven, riven by frost and rain. Holes and cracks made the going treacherous. One wrong step could have broken his leg.

  The stones showed no displacement by footprints, but something glittered on the ground ahead. It was a glass bead from one of Mgeso’s necklaces. Theo picked it up, panic mounting. He saw another, and another beyond, at the opening to a crack in the cliff that made a dark, narrow cave.

  Theo ran to the cave. Was Mgeso in there? Perhaps she had escaped Malsum and Bichot—breaking her necklace—and hidden in the cave.

  He called her name. All he heard was echoes—and a strange noise, like a saw scraping a metal pipe. It reverberated off the walls so he could not tell where it came from.

  He should have brought a knife. Any weapon. Dread rose from the pit of his stomach as he squeezed into the crack. The rock closed over him. Inside the cave, the light faded behind him. The rasping noise grew louder.

  There was movement on the floor at the back of the cave. Was it Mgeso? Theo shook with rage as he imagined what Malsum and Bichot might have done to her. He edged closer, deeper into the cave. His eyes were adjusting to the dim light. He could see a dappled pattern, like fabric, maybe limbs or the folds of a dress. The noise was almost deafening.

  And suddenly he saw what it was.

  It was an enormous rattlesnake. Its color was dark as molasses, its tail blazed with many buttons showing all the skins it had shed over its long life. It stood up erect, its angular head feinting and darting at him. Uncoiled, it would be as long as a man.

  He remembered Moses’s words from many moons ago. One bite will kill you.

  The snake’s movements became more hostile. Its tail vibrated so fast it was a blur. The noise of its rattle filled the cave with menace.

  If Theo had hesitated for a second, he would have been dead. But he was Abenaki now, and he breathed with the animals. He felt the snake’s muscles contract to strike as if they were his own. He stepped back, and as the snake lunged past him he stamped down on its head, pinning it to the floor. Its scaly skin writhed and twisted against his bare foot. Before it could free itself, he grabbed it behind the neck and yanked it away. He had a momentary vision of a flared mouth, a forked tongue and long, venomous fangs. He hurled it as hard as he could out of the cave and onto the open ground outside.

  He heard shouts of fear and consternation, then a short scream and a blade ringing on stone.

  His heart stopped. He recognized the scream.

  He saw them the moment he squeezed out of the cave. Bichot held Mgeso with her arms pinned behind her back. She was struggling, but he was too strong. Malsum stood in front of them, blood dripping from the blade of his tomahawk. The decapitated snake lay twisted at his feet, still twitching.

  “Let her go,” said Theo. He spoke to Malsum, but he could not take his eyes off Mgeso. “Let her go and I will forget this madness.”

  Malsum’s lip curled in a sneer. “Mgeso is mine. But I will give you this one chance. Go back to your own people. Run away into the forest. Never set foot on Abenaki land again, and I will let you live.”

  Theo’s eyes locked with Mgeso’s, burning with defiance, and he knew what he had to do.

  “She is my wife,” he said. “I will not allow her to be dishonored.”

  Malsum looked surprised. He swung the tomahawk in a lazy loop. “The snakebite would have been a quick death. I will not be so gentle.”

  He came at Theo. The tomahawk blade danced in the air, like a hummingbird, so fast Theo could barely keep track of it. Mgeso cried out, but Bichot crooked his arm around her neck and choked her into silence.

  Theo had no illusions about his chances. Malsum was older, taller, and as strong as a bull. A hundred times on the hunt, Theo had seen him perform feats of strength he would have thought impossible. Theo had no weapon except his anger. He moved backward, circling to try to keep distance between him and Malsum.

  Malsum went on the attack, swinging the tomahawk at Theo’s head. Theo threw out his hand to wrest the weapon from Malsum’s grip. He missed, but if his forearm had collided with the shaft it would have snapped. Malsum followed in hard, launching a string of quick attacks, and only Theo’s reflexes saved him from being carved into pieces.

  From across the clearing, Bichot laughed. He was enjoying the sport.

  Malsum feinted toward Theo’s head, then pivoted around and brought the tomahawk in low. The flat of the blade struck Theo with a crack on the kneecap. Theo’s leg buckled. Malsum punched him in the stomach, and as Theo doubled over the Abenaki swept his legs from under him. Theo fell on his back.

  It was over. Malsum stood over him. He had won. He tossed the tomahawk aside onto the rocks and drew the knife from his belt. He was going to scalp Theo alive. Theo heard a choking sob from Mgeso. He tried to see her face one last time, but Malsum blocked his view.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw something moving on the ground beside him. It was the snake, still twitching even in death.

  Malsum stooped with the knife. At the same moment, Theo grabbed the snake’s tail and swung it with all his might. The dead reptile uncoiled like a bullwhip. It smacked Malsum’s face with a spray of blood that so startled him he dropped the knife.

  Theo scrabbled on the ground for the weapon, feeling the blade with his fingers. With a jerk of his wrist, he drove it pommel-first into his enemy’s face. A savage joy coursed through him as he felt Malsum’s nose break under the impact.

  Malsum reeled away. Theo leaped to his feet and sent him sprawling with a couple of vicious kicks, followed by a punch to the head with the butt of the knife handle that knocked the Abenaki unconscious. Theo tucked the knife into his belt and retrieved the tomahawk that Malsum had discarded.

  He could have killed Malsum with a single blow. But he hesitated. Killing in cold blood revolted him, and Malsum was Abenaki, his tribe. He looked toward Mgeso. Bichot still had his muscular arms wrapped around her, and he was holding a knife at her throat. He would surely sever her windpipe.

  �
�Let her go,” Theo ordered. “This was Malsum’s fight, not yours. You have nothing to gain now.”

  “Stay back,” Bichot warned. “Or I’ll kill her.” It was a stand-off. Brutal though he was, he could see the fire in Theo’s eyes.

  “If I tell the sachem what you tried to do, he will carve open your skull and fill it with hot coals,” Theo shouted. “But I will give you this one chance, the same that Malsum gave me. Let her go and run from here as fast as you can. I will not follow you.”

  Bichot jerked his head. The string of claws around his neck rattled. “I will take the girl with me. I will release her when I am safe.”

  “Let her go now!” Theo screamed. He stared at Mgeso. Though she could not move with the knife at her neck, her eyes blazed with the message. Fight.

  Without warning, Bichot flung his arms wide and thrust Mgeso away. She stumbled forward and sprawled on the ground, falling on her pregnant belly. Bichot fled.

  Theo ran to her. As he put his arms around her, he felt a hard object protruding from her side. She was moaning, a deep guttural despair: a hot, sticky liquid was oozing over his fingers.

  He turned her over and let out a cry as if his heart had been ripped from him. Bichot had driven the blade of his knife deep in her side. Theo tried to extract it but pulling the handle only opened the wound. Blood gushed and Mgeso screamed in agony.

  Theo could tell the stab would be fatal. He tried to staunch the bleeding but the escaping blood bubbled with air seeping from her lungs.

  Bichot had disappeared into the forest, but Theo had no thought of giving chase. He cradled Mgeso in his arms. He felt her heart against his chest, faint and failing. Her eyes were clouded with pain.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered. Tears flowed down his face, weeping for Mgeso and the child he would never see. “I would have crossed oceans and fought armies to save you. But I could not.”

  She lifted a weak hand to brush away his tears. “I will wait for you with the ancestors. And in winter, when the snow is deep, go to the hollow tree and remember me.”

  “I will.”

  “Siumo,” she murmured. Her voice was no more than a whisper. Theo’s desolation was all-consuming, as it had been when he had lost his father. She and the child were slipping away, and there was nothing he could do. “Hold me, Siumo.”

  “I am Ahoma,” he reminded her.

  “You are not Ahoma,” she said. A distant look had come into her eyes. “You are Siumo, the hawk. You will fly far from this place and fight many battles. You will swoop on your enemies and tear them to pieces. You will avenge me.” Her hand closed around his. “Do this for me.”

  “I will,” Theo promised. But the light had gone out of her eyes, and she did not hear him.

  He gently laid Mgeso on the ground and as he did so he saw Malsum stir. Theo picked up the tomahawk and with a rage that shook his whole body he lunged at him. Malsum was quick to see the attack and kicked viciously into Theo’s stomach, winding him. Malsum was dazed and his nose was still gouting blood. Instinctively he scrambled to his feet and ran into the forest, leaving Theo on his side, bent double, clutching his midriff, gasping desperately for air and weeping uncontrollably.

  •••

  After they had buried Mgeso and the child inside her, the sachem came to console Theo. He looked old and careworn. Mgeso’s death had shaken the tribe. Malsum was nowhere to be found. He had not been seen since running from Theo. Theo knew there were many in the tribe who resented that their kinsman was a fugitive while Theo, the outsider, was still among them.

  “I had a dream last night,” the sachem said, “like the one I had the day you came. The child sat in the clearing and the wolf came to menace it. This time, the hawk did not fight the wolf. He flew into the forest, drawing the wolf away.”

  He searched Theo’s face. “It means you will leave us.”

  Theo wondered if there had been a dream, or if this was the old man’s way of telling him to go. It made little difference. With Mgeso, he had felt at home among the Abenaki. If their child had been born, he would have belonged with them. Now he had nothing—except a burning hunger for revenge.

  “I had a dream too,” Theo told him. It had come in the depths of the night, lying in an empty bed that felt as cold as a tomb. “Mgeso was lying underwater in a dark pool. She was not dead, but it was as if the surface was covered with clear ice and she could not break out. When she tried to speak, all that came from her mouth was a snake as long as a house. It coiled around her body and throttled her.”

  The sachem sucked his teeth. “She died unjustly. Her soul is not at peace.”

  Theo thought of the black swamp, and the wicked flames of the ghost fires burning there. He told himself it was superstition and he didn’t believe it.

  “Malsum and Bichot did this,” he said. “I will find them and make them pay.”

  “If you follow that path, you will no longer be Abenaki,” the sachem warned. “The Blaumonak are our allies, and they will protect Bichot. Malsum is one of our fiercest warriors. If you fight them, you will do it alone.”

  “Then that is what I must do.”

  The sachem nodded. “We do not do as we choose, but as the ancestors command.”

  A warning cry sounded from the lookouts on the cliff. Someone was coming. The women and children melted away into the forest, while the men gathered their weapons. The war had not touched them that summer, but they knew it was not far off, like a fire burning in the forest. A simple change in the wind could bring it to them in a heartbeat.

  A man wandered down the cliff path and entered the village, just as Theo had a year earlier. He wore brown buckskin trousers and a short green jacket, like the trappers, but also the white cross belts and haversack of a soldier. He had a powder horn and a shot bag, but no rifle.

  The Abenaki watched him, weapons ready.

  “I come for a parley,” the newcomer announced. It was the first time Theo had heard any man speak English since the day he was taken prisoner. The language sounded strange and jarring on his ears. “My name is Lieutenant Trent, from the Company of Rangers.” He looked uncertainly around the village, scanning the watching faces. “Is there an Englishman in your tribe?”

  The ranger’s gaze passed over Theo without a second thought. None of the Abenaki glanced at him to give him away. They understood that this was his choice to make, and his alone. Was he Abenaki, or Bastaniak?

  A long silence held the clearing. The ranger hesitated. He could feel that something was amiss, but the Indians’ impassive faces betrayed nothing. Eventually, impatience won over curiosity. He touched his hat. “It seems I was misinformed. Good day to you.” He turned to go.

  “Wait!” Theo called.

  The word echoed around the silent clearing. The ranger paused and looked back. Even then, he did not know who had spoken. All he saw was Abenaki.

  Theo stepped forward.

  “My name is Theo Courtney.”

  The Paris gossips lingered on the fringes of the ballroom, among the marble columns that lined the dance floor. Once, these women would have been out in full view, dancing and flirting and toying with men’s hearts, but that was a young girl’s sport. Now, they wore so much powder on their faces that the exertions of dancing would have ruined their complexions. They sat on the sidelines and watched the dancers over the tops of their fans and hands of cards.

  One dancer, in particular, was the subject of their interest—of many conversations, in fact, all over the room. She had long fair hair elaborately braided, wide green eyes and a breathtaking figure that drew jealous looks from the other women—and covetous stares from men. The bodice of her dress was cut so low that her every move risked embarrassment, yet she spun and danced with rare abandon—as if she were alone in her boudoir, not being judged by a hundred pairs of eyes.

  “Who is she?” demanded the first gossip. She was the Marquise de Sologne, an elderly woman whose affairs had been legendary in her youth. She prided herself on knowing
all of the eligible young women in Paris. A word from her, and a woman might find the door of every respectable salon closed to her without knowing why. And yet the girl on the dance floor was unknown to her.

  “She is Madame Constance de Courtenay,” said her friend, eager to show off this crumb of knowledge. “Recently arrived from India.”

  “Does her husband know she is here?” said the marquise, to widespread laughter.

  “She is widowed.” The friend lowered her voice, forcing her companions to lean in closer. In their circle, rumor was gold. She wanted full credit for this nugget.

  “It is a most romantic tale. She is an Englishwoman, from India. She was at the fall of Calcutta, and was captured. The nawab, who is a kind of king in India, threw her into his dungeons. Who knows what indignities he may have inflicted upon her there?”

  The women around the table shivered as they imagined it. All had vivid ideas of the debauchery of the Orient.

  “Mercifully, she was rescued. Her husband was a captain with our army in India, a gentleman named Capitaine de Courtenay. He released her from the nawab’s dungeon. Naturally, she fell in love with her gallant savior. She married him. But no sooner had she obtained this happiness than tragedy struck again. Her husband fell overboard on the voyage home and drowned. She embarked as a bride and landed a widow.”

  The women considered this momentous trove of information.

  “She does not look unduly burdened by her loss,” said the marquise, archly. On the floor, Constance was dancing a particularly energetic gavotte. “That poor young man can hardly keep up.”

  “That poor young man is worth ten thousand livres a year,” noted one of her companions.

  There was a sigh of understanding. Exotic she might be, this Indian-born Englishwoman who had arrived in Paris, but her motives were as familiar as the bells of Notre-Dame.

  “In a few months, she will limp back to some provincial village, and eke out a living on whatever her late husband’s pension affords her,” declared one of the gossips. “Some men may find a passing distraction in the charms of youth, but in the end, they will always opt for fortune and pedigree.”