Into the Wilderness
Page 114
She let him go and wiped his face with her fingers. Then Elizabeth looked up over his shoulder and saw how close Richard was, how his mouth twisted with disgust. And at his elbow, Runs-from-Bears with a hand on the shaft of his tomahawk.
"You'll have enough of him sooner than you think," Richard said when she met his gaze. "Sarah did, and so will you."
Everything in Nathaniel stilled. Elizabeth felt this, the way all his focus came down, small and tight, on the sound of Richard's voice behind him.
"Think, man," he said without turning. "Think what you're doing."
"I know what I'm doing," Richard said, not taking his eyes from Elizabeth.
"I'm telling your wife what she needs to know. Being so fond of children as she is."
"What is he talking about?" Elizabeth asked, frightened.
"I'm talking about the fact that he can't give you children. Has he told you that?"
Elizabeth glanced up at Nathaniel and saw that he had gone away inside himself, his face a mask.
"Nathaniel?"
"You see on his face that it's true.
"Hannah," she said. "There's Hannah."
"Hannah's mine," said Richard.
"Nathaniel?" She touched his face, and he seemed to come back to life. He took her hand, and pulled her farther away from Richard, "Go now," he whispered.
"Remember to wait for the sign from Bears."
"I don't understand—" she began.
"Elizabeth," he said. "It would take too long now. Do you trust me?"
She nodded.
"Then believe me. Hannah is my daughter. I will answer your questions when I come to you, anything you care to ask me. Will you wait for that? Can you?"
Once again, Elizabeth nodded, but slowly.
"I love you," he said against her mouth. And he walked away from her down to the river.
Elizabeth turned back to the house and after a few yards Runs-from-Bears fell into step beside her. She heard the splash on the canoe as it entered the river, but she never looked back.
Chapter 27
The most remarkable thing about Runs-from-Bears, Elizabeth came to believe, was not the contrast between his ferocious appearance and his dry good humor, but his willingness to talk. She had been very quiet on the first day because it seemed appropriate to be silent in the infinity of these forests, unlike anything she had ever experienced or imagined. And she had thought that Bears would have little to say to her; she was shy of him, and worried that she wouldn't be able to meet his expectations.
And when they had finally made camp, Elizabeth had not really wanted conversation, tired as she was. It was then, sitting before the little fire and turning the cleaned possum on its spit of green wood, that she had found out that Runs-from-Bears was almost as curious about her as she was about him and that he had things to teach her.
By the second day on the trail to the northwest, Elizabeth had begun to like him very much, and to learn how much she didn't know. The business of staying alive in the bush was serious and exhausting but also absorbing. With his guidance, she had managed the rudiment aries of cleaning small game and fish. Struggling with a possum—an animal she found almost too ugly to eat or the skinning of a rabbit, she was very thankful that there wasn't time for him to go after bigger animals.
Rabbits were the quickest game, but she soon learned that while they were available in abundance, they were also too lean to sustain people who walked hard all day long. Bears addressed this problem with a supply of rendered bear fat, which he squeezed from a skin directly into his mouth. Elizabeth could watch him do this, but she was not so hungry that she could manage it herself. The corncake, dry now and requiring much chewing, was filled with nuts and she hoped these would meet her needs for the time being. It was certainly true that she was hungrier than she had ever been in her life.
Elizabeth learned to strip kindling with her fingers from a birch trunk, locate deadwood, and although she was terribly slow at it, to start a fire with flint and iron. Above all other things, Elizabeth was learning to see in the woods: Runs-from-Bears pointed out wolf and deer and panther scat, beaver dams and lodges, old abandoned duck nests appropriated by mice, the way that squirrels scattered refuse on the ground beneath the trees they favored, raccoon tracks like the imprint of the human hand, how to tell otter from fisher prints, and the alternating pattern of the black bear's track. They skirted a thicket of hawthorn and he stopped to show her the way a shrike had impaled a small mole on a long thorn. She thought she would be very hungry indeed before she resorted to stealing the shrike's dinner, but she didn't say this to Bears.
Sitting in the early morning with her food, Elizabeth looked at the stretches of white cedar lining the shore of the little lake where they had camped and she saw that deer had been foraging there, shearing off the underside of the foliage in straight lines that aunt Merriweather's gardeners would have been proud of. Interspersed with the cedar were ragged spruce branches hanging low. She asked Runs-from-Bears about this.
"Deer don't care much for spruce," he agreed. He said this once in Kahnyen’keháka and then repeated it in English.
This was the fourth full day out of Saratoga, and deep in the bush. They were eating the last of the corncake and dried berries, but Bears thought they would get to Robbie MacLachlan's by midday, and he didn't seem concerned about their lack of provisions. Elizabeth watched Bears eat, more neatly and fastidiously than she could manage without fork or spoon. There wasn't a wasted movement to the process, and he seemed to take little pleasure in it. His eyes scanned the bush as he chewed. Elizabeth knew that he was seeing things that she couldn't even imagine.
"You'll have enough of him sooner than you think," Richard said when she met his gaze. "Sarah did, and so will you."
Everything in Nathaniel stilled. Elizabeth felt this, the way all his focus came down, small and tight, on the sound of Richard's voice behind him.
"Think, man," he said without turning. "Think what you're doing."
"I know what I'm doing," Richard said, not taking his eyes from Elizabeth.
"I'm telling your wife what she needs to know. Being so fond of children as she is."
"What is he talking about?" Elizabeth asked, frightened.
"I'm talking about the fact that he can't give you children. Has he told you that?"
Elizabeth glanced up at Nathaniel and saw that he had gone away inside himself, his face a mask.
"Nathaniel?"
"You see on his face that it's true.
"Hannah," she said. "There's Hannah."
"Hannah's mine," said Richard.
"Nathaniel?" She touched his face, and he seemed to come back to life. He took her hand, and pulled her farther away from Richard, "Go now," he whispered.
"Remember to wait for the sign from Bears."
"I don't understand—" she began.
"Elizabeth," he said. "It would take too long now. Do you trust me?"
She nodded.
"Then believe me. Hannah is my daughter. I will answer your questions when I come to you, anything you care to ask me. Will you wait for that? Can you?"
Once again, Elizabeth nodded, but slowly.
"I love you," he said against her mouth. And he walked away from her down to the river.
Elizabeth turned back to the house and after a few yards Runs-from-Bears fell into step beside her. She heard the splash on the canoe as it entered the river, but she never looked back.
Chapter 27
The most remarkable thing about Runs-from-Bears, Elizabeth came to believe, was not the contrast between his ferocious appearance and his dry good humor, but his willingness to talk. She had been very quiet on the first day because it seemed appropriate to be silent in the infinity of these forests, unlike anything she had ever experienced or imagined. And she had thought that Bears would have little to say to her; she was shy of him, and worried that she wouldn't be able to meet his expectations.
And when they had finally made camp, Elizabeth had not really wanted conversation, tired as she was. It was then, sitting before the little fire and turning the cleaned possum on its spit of green wood, that she had found out that Runs-from-Bears was almost as curious about her as she was about him and that he had things to teach her.
By the second day on the trail to the northwest, Elizabeth had begun to like him very much, and to learn how much she didn't know. The business of staying alive in the bush was serious and exhausting but also absorbing. With his guidance, she had managed the rudiment aries of cleaning small game and fish. Struggling with a possum—an animal she found almost too ugly to eat or the skinning of a rabbit, she was very thankful that there wasn't time for him to go after bigger animals.
Rabbits were the quickest game, but she soon learned that while they were available in abundance, they were also too lean to sustain people who walked hard all day long. Bears addressed this problem with a supply of rendered bear fat, which he squeezed from a skin directly into his mouth. Elizabeth could watch him do this, but she was not so hungry that she could manage it herself. The corncake, dry now and requiring much chewing, was filled with nuts and she hoped these would meet her needs for the time being. It was certainly true that she was hungrier than she had ever been in her life.
Elizabeth learned to strip kindling with her fingers from a birch trunk, locate deadwood, and although she was terribly slow at it, to start a fire with flint and iron. Above all other things, Elizabeth was learning to see in the woods: Runs-from-Bears pointed out wolf and deer and panther scat, beaver dams and lodges, old abandoned duck nests appropriated by mice, the way that squirrels scattered refuse on the ground beneath the trees they favored, raccoon tracks like the imprint of the human hand, how to tell otter from fisher prints, and the alternating pattern of the black bear's track. They skirted a thicket of hawthorn and he stopped to show her the way a shrike had impaled a small mole on a long thorn. She thought she would be very hungry indeed before she resorted to stealing the shrike's dinner, but she didn't say this to Bears.
Sitting in the early morning with her food, Elizabeth looked at the stretches of white cedar lining the shore of the little lake where they had camped and she saw that deer had been foraging there, shearing off the underside of the foliage in straight lines that aunt Merriweather's gardeners would have been proud of. Interspersed with the cedar were ragged spruce branches hanging low. She asked Runs-from-Bears about this.
"Deer don't care much for spruce," he agreed. He said this once in Kahnyen’keháka and then repeated it in English.
This was the fourth full day out of Saratoga, and deep in the bush. They were eating the last of the corncake and dried berries, but Bears thought they would get to Robbie MacLachlan's by midday, and he didn't seem concerned about their lack of provisions. Elizabeth watched Bears eat, more neatly and fastidiously than she could manage without fork or spoon. There wasn't a wasted movement to the process, and he seemed to take little pleasure in it. His eyes scanned the bush as he chewed. Elizabeth knew that he was seeing things that she couldn't even imagine.
