Into the Wilderness
Page 150
"No." She stood up, too, and then staggered.
He pushed her back down, gently. "Scoot all the way under there, and keep yourself small. Do you have the musket? Good. I'm just going to have a look."
After a moment she did as he had directed, sitting with her knees under her chin and the musket in the valley of her lap. She watched him skirting the lake. He stopped to listen and then walked on again, disappearing into the bush with a brief look back toward her. Elizabeth stood up then, unable to stay still. Listening with all her power of concentration, she could hear nothing at all except the sounds of the lake, and the birds. The singing—if it had been singing—had stopped.
They weren't often apart in the last days, and when they were, it was a strange thing. It was true that she was more and more at ease in the forests, but Elizabeth knew that she was still very vulnerable. While Nathaniel hunted she saw after her clothes, or his, or cooking, any task to take her mind off what frightened her most: what would happen if he didn't come back. It wasn't so much being lost that worried her, although that was a real danger, one too vivid to be contemplated for long. But what worried her more was coming back to Paradise without Nathaniel. Facing Hannah, and Hawkeye. And her own life, without him. The longer he was gone, the more detailed her anxieties became.
There was a shrill whistle; she turned to see Nathaniel emerge from the forest farther up the shoreline. He came toward her at a trot. His preoccupation was still there, but some of the tension was gone.
"Man hurt," he said.
"Who?"
"Don't know him. He's got shelter up there, but he's in bad shape." Nathaniel began to gather up their things.
"Very bad?" she asked, reaching for her pack.
"Aye," said Nathaniel. "He's dying."
Chapter 33
Nathaniel set her to hauling water. In spite of her foot, and the fact that the stream was a good distance, and the awkward makeshift rawhide bucket, and the great deal of water they would need; in spite of all that, he set her to the task, and waited until she had started off for the first time before he went into the shelter. The fact was, he didn't know whether or not the man was dangerous, and he just didn't care for the idea of Elizabeth nearby. Not yet.
The singing had faded away just before he came upon the camp, where he had found the stranger in an uneasy and fevered sleep. Looking at him, it hadn't taken much for Nathaniel to figure out that he was on the run: his skin was the deep color of wild plums in August, his hair and beard like mottled fleece, his hands great overused tools. On his heavily muscled upper chest there was a brand that Nathaniel could just see through the opening in the homespun shirt. A runaway slave, of a good age, but strong. And he was dying. The deeply sunken eyes gave it away. That, and his left arm: below the shoulder it had swollen to twice its normal size, straining the hunting shirt he wore to bursting. The stink of putrefaction hung about him like a burial blanket.
Before he fetched Elizabeth, Nathaniel had spent some time looking around. Things were out of kilter here, and it worried him. A lean—to carefully built out of the materials at hand by a man who knew his work, who had more intelligence and imagination than tools. Inside the shelter there was a makeshift cot and a flattish boulder that served as a table. On an old blanket spread out neatly Nathaniel saw an ancient musket, but no evidence of shot or powder, some snares, a single beaver trap, and the remains of a meal of rabbit and fiddlehead ferns on a mat of woven reeds. In a rough carved bowl covered by a flat rock there was some dried meat and peas, but otherwise no provisions. Outside there was a hatchet, a short shovel, a hammer, a knife, a whetstone, a single cook pot, all scattered to the elements and already showing the first faint glimmer of rust. This had been the first sign that something was very wrong; Nathaniel knew instinctively that a man who could plan and build this camp would never have treated his tools in such a way; they stood between him and extinction.
Nathaniel reached up and poked a hole in the roof, and then he started a small fire below it, burning the filthy grass bedding and then the roofing material itself—bark shingles mostly, lashed together with cord braided of roots—to drive the stench away. Even while he worked, the man didn't wake, and Nathaniel wondered whether he would at all, or if he would slip away without even telling them his name.
When Elizabeth returned for the third time with the filled bucket, he sent her back down to the lake to bring him as much sweet flag as she could carry. She went without a complaint, trying to hide her limp.
Through all this the man slept, twitching and starting. He cried out in pain and then mumbled, slipping back down into a deeper sleep. In his dreams he was fighting a battle other than the one that would kill him. Nathaniel couldn't make sense of his fears, of the things he had done to protect himself. There were piles of rocks, fist—sized and right for throwing; dried grasses twisted into torches, maybe thirty of them that Nathaniel could see just inside the shelter. A pike constructed of three long branches bound together with a sharpened stone at one end, as if to fight something he had no wish to be near. And then there were the pits.
They were the first thing he had pointed out to Elizabeth when he brought her up here, one by one. Each had been covered by bark mats, and Nathaniel had only narrowly missed a fall before he saw them, spaced irregularly around the camp. He had searched them out, yanking the covers off and throwing them onto the cold cook pit. They were all of the same good depth, but not so deep that you couldn't climb out—except a man who fell in wouldn't be in any shape for climbing: each one was studded with slender branches sharpened to a lethal point.
He pushed her back down, gently. "Scoot all the way under there, and keep yourself small. Do you have the musket? Good. I'm just going to have a look."
After a moment she did as he had directed, sitting with her knees under her chin and the musket in the valley of her lap. She watched him skirting the lake. He stopped to listen and then walked on again, disappearing into the bush with a brief look back toward her. Elizabeth stood up then, unable to stay still. Listening with all her power of concentration, she could hear nothing at all except the sounds of the lake, and the birds. The singing—if it had been singing—had stopped.
They weren't often apart in the last days, and when they were, it was a strange thing. It was true that she was more and more at ease in the forests, but Elizabeth knew that she was still very vulnerable. While Nathaniel hunted she saw after her clothes, or his, or cooking, any task to take her mind off what frightened her most: what would happen if he didn't come back. It wasn't so much being lost that worried her, although that was a real danger, one too vivid to be contemplated for long. But what worried her more was coming back to Paradise without Nathaniel. Facing Hannah, and Hawkeye. And her own life, without him. The longer he was gone, the more detailed her anxieties became.
There was a shrill whistle; she turned to see Nathaniel emerge from the forest farther up the shoreline. He came toward her at a trot. His preoccupation was still there, but some of the tension was gone.
"Man hurt," he said.
"Who?"
"Don't know him. He's got shelter up there, but he's in bad shape." Nathaniel began to gather up their things.
"Very bad?" she asked, reaching for her pack.
"Aye," said Nathaniel. "He's dying."
Chapter 33
Nathaniel set her to hauling water. In spite of her foot, and the fact that the stream was a good distance, and the awkward makeshift rawhide bucket, and the great deal of water they would need; in spite of all that, he set her to the task, and waited until she had started off for the first time before he went into the shelter. The fact was, he didn't know whether or not the man was dangerous, and he just didn't care for the idea of Elizabeth nearby. Not yet.
The singing had faded away just before he came upon the camp, where he had found the stranger in an uneasy and fevered sleep. Looking at him, it hadn't taken much for Nathaniel to figure out that he was on the run: his skin was the deep color of wild plums in August, his hair and beard like mottled fleece, his hands great overused tools. On his heavily muscled upper chest there was a brand that Nathaniel could just see through the opening in the homespun shirt. A runaway slave, of a good age, but strong. And he was dying. The deeply sunken eyes gave it away. That, and his left arm: below the shoulder it had swollen to twice its normal size, straining the hunting shirt he wore to bursting. The stink of putrefaction hung about him like a burial blanket.
Before he fetched Elizabeth, Nathaniel had spent some time looking around. Things were out of kilter here, and it worried him. A lean—to carefully built out of the materials at hand by a man who knew his work, who had more intelligence and imagination than tools. Inside the shelter there was a makeshift cot and a flattish boulder that served as a table. On an old blanket spread out neatly Nathaniel saw an ancient musket, but no evidence of shot or powder, some snares, a single beaver trap, and the remains of a meal of rabbit and fiddlehead ferns on a mat of woven reeds. In a rough carved bowl covered by a flat rock there was some dried meat and peas, but otherwise no provisions. Outside there was a hatchet, a short shovel, a hammer, a knife, a whetstone, a single cook pot, all scattered to the elements and already showing the first faint glimmer of rust. This had been the first sign that something was very wrong; Nathaniel knew instinctively that a man who could plan and build this camp would never have treated his tools in such a way; they stood between him and extinction.
Nathaniel reached up and poked a hole in the roof, and then he started a small fire below it, burning the filthy grass bedding and then the roofing material itself—bark shingles mostly, lashed together with cord braided of roots—to drive the stench away. Even while he worked, the man didn't wake, and Nathaniel wondered whether he would at all, or if he would slip away without even telling them his name.
When Elizabeth returned for the third time with the filled bucket, he sent her back down to the lake to bring him as much sweet flag as she could carry. She went without a complaint, trying to hide her limp.
Through all this the man slept, twitching and starting. He cried out in pain and then mumbled, slipping back down into a deeper sleep. In his dreams he was fighting a battle other than the one that would kill him. Nathaniel couldn't make sense of his fears, of the things he had done to protect himself. There were piles of rocks, fist—sized and right for throwing; dried grasses twisted into torches, maybe thirty of them that Nathaniel could see just inside the shelter. A pike constructed of three long branches bound together with a sharpened stone at one end, as if to fight something he had no wish to be near. And then there were the pits.
They were the first thing he had pointed out to Elizabeth when he brought her up here, one by one. Each had been covered by bark mats, and Nathaniel had only narrowly missed a fall before he saw them, spaced irregularly around the camp. He had searched them out, yanking the covers off and throwing them onto the cold cook pit. They were all of the same good depth, but not so deep that you couldn't climb out—except a man who fell in wouldn't be in any shape for climbing: each one was studded with slender branches sharpened to a lethal point.
