Into the Wilderness
Page 166
"Besides, if you ever were going to kill me, it would have been back then. When Sarah died."
Nathaniel felt his pulse beat pick up; he was suddenly not sleepy at all.
"You think it was my fault, I know you do. Everybody does."
It took a lot, but Nathaniel kept his peace.
"Well, it wasn't. Nobody could stop the bleeding. Curiosity couldn't, either, nor your mother, nobody. I did my best."
The storm swelled again, and the fire sputtered.
"Goddamn it man, I know you're awake. Say something."
"You're sicker than I thought," said Nathaniel. "To be running off at the mouth the way you are."
Richard grunted. "Fever," he said. "Does the talking."
"You got nothing to say worth listening to." Nathaniel tossed his cup and it clanged against the kettle.
"Not like you can walk away from me, is it, if I want to talk to you. But if you don't want to listen, then let me ask you a question."
"For Christ's sake, Todd. Save your breath."
"Why'd you marry her?"
He let the question hang there, not knowing which woman it was Todd was asking about. The one who lay all these years in her grave, a child in her arms whose father couldn't be named with certainty. Or the one out there on his account, who might not make it through the night.
Nathaniel said, "If you could have one of them, right now, which would it be?"
"Why, Sarah," said Todd softly, but without hesitation. "It was always Sarah. She was mine first."
Nathaniel looked hard across the fire, but he could see nothing of the man except one arm, bent up at an angle across his face. He wondered if the poison had got into his blood already, to have him talk so crazy.
"She never told you, I know it. But she would have run with me, that winter I ran away from Kahen'tiyo. If she could have."
"Sarah would've been ten years old," Nathaniel pointed out, trying to keep the irritation and anger from his voice, and not succeeding. That Falling—Day and her family had spent the winter that year in the Kahnyen’keháka village to the north, he knew to be fact.
"I was only eleven. And she wanted to come with me," Todd said. "She knew even back then that she didn't belong."
"Sarah was Kahnyen’keháka," Nathaniel said weakly.
"I taught her to think otherwise," said Todd. "Although she took some reminding, when we finally ran into each other again."
"Reason enough to kill you, right there." Nathaniel's fingers groped and curled and found no purchase. He forced himself to think of Elizabeth, and then he drew in three deep, pain—wrenching breaths, and then three more. "But I won't," he said finally. "At least, not right now." He closed his eyes, but it wasn't any good. Some things wouldn't go away in the dark.
"How come you're telling me about this now?" he asked. "All this time you kept quiet."
"I'm sicker than you are."
"Well, I don't care to hear your confession," Nathaniel snapped.
"That's not the point," Richard said. "You never have got the point."
"Then spit it out, man. What do you want of us?"
There was a long pause. "The leg's infected," Richard said. "If she doesn't get back here quick I won't have much chance."
Nathaniel said, "You can't have the Wolf, living or dead."
"But you could bury me there," he said softly. "If I don't make it, you could bury me next to Sarah."
"And if you live?"
"Then I'll do my best to get the mountain," Richard said.
* * *
Elizabeth fell for the second time climbing over a huge hummock. The carpet of moss gave way and she sank in to the ankle, coming to a full stop while the world revolved around her in a fury of wind, never—ending lightning, and thunder more predictable than the beat of her own heart. With a gasp, she sat back awkwardly on one haunch.
She was so wet, she could not remember what it was like to be dry. The buckskin clung to her heavily, and she thought lazily about simply taking all the wet things off and just making her way without. "Eve on the way back into the garden," she said aloud.
Treenie crowded in close, her teeth chattering visibly. Elizabeth slung one arm around the animal's neck to steady herself and slowly pulled her ankle out. A deep scratch, but no other injury. She had begun to pull up, when she felt the dog tense.
Just on the other side of the stream, the ragged frame of a dead balsam was thrown into relief by a huge flash of light. The bolt struck at the tip and rent it to the root with a noise so absolute that Elizabeth felt rather than heard the whoosh of the explosion: the balsam burst into a single flame, and fell in a slow and graceful arc like a torch flung into the stream. Unable to turn away or close her streaming eyes, Elizabeth watched as the burning tree discharged a volley of small missiles which flew through the air, streaming fire. Some landed heavily in the water, but one fell at her feet with a thud. She squinted, and looked harder, trying to make sense of it: a jay, its claws turned down on themselves in death. One half of its feathers strangely disheveled and standing on end; the other half charred raw and slightly steaming.
Elizabeth pulled herself to her feet, wiped the rain from her face, and set off again.
* * *
The familiar night sounds provided some comfort: the odd barking cry of the fox, the echoing owls, the wolves, forever calling, the shouting of the tree frogs and crickets singing without pause. Drifting in and out of sleep, taking note of the state of the fire and the storm, paying attention to Richard's small sounds, Nathaniel dozed and slept and thought of Elizabeth. Willed her forward, through the swamp and then due south, to Robbie. He willed her dry and whole and healthy, he willed her good spirits and easy thoughts and a clear trail. He willed her back beside him.
Nathaniel felt his pulse beat pick up; he was suddenly not sleepy at all.
"You think it was my fault, I know you do. Everybody does."
It took a lot, but Nathaniel kept his peace.
"Well, it wasn't. Nobody could stop the bleeding. Curiosity couldn't, either, nor your mother, nobody. I did my best."
The storm swelled again, and the fire sputtered.
"Goddamn it man, I know you're awake. Say something."
"You're sicker than I thought," said Nathaniel. "To be running off at the mouth the way you are."
Richard grunted. "Fever," he said. "Does the talking."
"You got nothing to say worth listening to." Nathaniel tossed his cup and it clanged against the kettle.
"Not like you can walk away from me, is it, if I want to talk to you. But if you don't want to listen, then let me ask you a question."
"For Christ's sake, Todd. Save your breath."
"Why'd you marry her?"
He let the question hang there, not knowing which woman it was Todd was asking about. The one who lay all these years in her grave, a child in her arms whose father couldn't be named with certainty. Or the one out there on his account, who might not make it through the night.
Nathaniel said, "If you could have one of them, right now, which would it be?"
"Why, Sarah," said Todd softly, but without hesitation. "It was always Sarah. She was mine first."
Nathaniel looked hard across the fire, but he could see nothing of the man except one arm, bent up at an angle across his face. He wondered if the poison had got into his blood already, to have him talk so crazy.
"She never told you, I know it. But she would have run with me, that winter I ran away from Kahen'tiyo. If she could have."
"Sarah would've been ten years old," Nathaniel pointed out, trying to keep the irritation and anger from his voice, and not succeeding. That Falling—Day and her family had spent the winter that year in the Kahnyen’keháka village to the north, he knew to be fact.
"I was only eleven. And she wanted to come with me," Todd said. "She knew even back then that she didn't belong."
"Sarah was Kahnyen’keháka," Nathaniel said weakly.
"I taught her to think otherwise," said Todd. "Although she took some reminding, when we finally ran into each other again."
"Reason enough to kill you, right there." Nathaniel's fingers groped and curled and found no purchase. He forced himself to think of Elizabeth, and then he drew in three deep, pain—wrenching breaths, and then three more. "But I won't," he said finally. "At least, not right now." He closed his eyes, but it wasn't any good. Some things wouldn't go away in the dark.
"How come you're telling me about this now?" he asked. "All this time you kept quiet."
"I'm sicker than you are."
"Well, I don't care to hear your confession," Nathaniel snapped.
"That's not the point," Richard said. "You never have got the point."
"Then spit it out, man. What do you want of us?"
There was a long pause. "The leg's infected," Richard said. "If she doesn't get back here quick I won't have much chance."
Nathaniel said, "You can't have the Wolf, living or dead."
"But you could bury me there," he said softly. "If I don't make it, you could bury me next to Sarah."
"And if you live?"
"Then I'll do my best to get the mountain," Richard said.
* * *
Elizabeth fell for the second time climbing over a huge hummock. The carpet of moss gave way and she sank in to the ankle, coming to a full stop while the world revolved around her in a fury of wind, never—ending lightning, and thunder more predictable than the beat of her own heart. With a gasp, she sat back awkwardly on one haunch.
She was so wet, she could not remember what it was like to be dry. The buckskin clung to her heavily, and she thought lazily about simply taking all the wet things off and just making her way without. "Eve on the way back into the garden," she said aloud.
Treenie crowded in close, her teeth chattering visibly. Elizabeth slung one arm around the animal's neck to steady herself and slowly pulled her ankle out. A deep scratch, but no other injury. She had begun to pull up, when she felt the dog tense.
Just on the other side of the stream, the ragged frame of a dead balsam was thrown into relief by a huge flash of light. The bolt struck at the tip and rent it to the root with a noise so absolute that Elizabeth felt rather than heard the whoosh of the explosion: the balsam burst into a single flame, and fell in a slow and graceful arc like a torch flung into the stream. Unable to turn away or close her streaming eyes, Elizabeth watched as the burning tree discharged a volley of small missiles which flew through the air, streaming fire. Some landed heavily in the water, but one fell at her feet with a thud. She squinted, and looked harder, trying to make sense of it: a jay, its claws turned down on themselves in death. One half of its feathers strangely disheveled and standing on end; the other half charred raw and slightly steaming.
Elizabeth pulled herself to her feet, wiped the rain from her face, and set off again.
* * *
The familiar night sounds provided some comfort: the odd barking cry of the fox, the echoing owls, the wolves, forever calling, the shouting of the tree frogs and crickets singing without pause. Drifting in and out of sleep, taking note of the state of the fire and the storm, paying attention to Richard's small sounds, Nathaniel dozed and slept and thought of Elizabeth. Willed her forward, through the swamp and then due south, to Robbie. He willed her dry and whole and healthy, he willed her good spirits and easy thoughts and a clear trail. He willed her back beside him.
