Into the Wilderness
Page 241
Standing at the grave in which they had put him to rest, Nathaniel wondered where his grief had hidden itself. He envied his father, and Falling—Day, and the very rattles that Bitter—Words raised over his head, for their ability to send a voice into the heavens. He could not; his words had been taken from him. He could not even find them for Elizabeth, who stood beside him quietly, her gray eyes like bruises in her pale face.
One by one, men came forth to speak over Chingachgook. White and red, they had fought and hunted beside him; they wore their years as openly and proudly as their battle scars. In Mahican and Kahnyen’keháka and Onandaga and English, they offered their memories. The old warriors wished Chingachgook a good journey, and counted his days in words as clear and hard as wampum beads. Axel spoke, too, and the judge, a roaring mumble of regret and self—pity that made the faith keeper stare and the Kahnyen’keháka look away in shame for him.
Elizabeth swayed, and Nathaniel put an arm around her. She would ever surprise him, this wife of his. Her eyes moved over him, searching his face as her hands had explored his wounds, lightly, knowingly. He had wondered if she could bear these many hours of leave—taking; he had forgotten the depths of her strength. One day it would be his turn to walk this path, and then she would stand here with their children beside her, and she would find the words to tell the story of his days. She would outlive them all to tell the tale. He would see to it.
* * *
By sunset it was over, and the Kahnyen’keháka started to slip away in small groups over the ridge of the mountain. Once, Many-Doves told Elizabeth, there would have been days of storytelling and prayers, but no more. The Hode'noshaunee who survived in this part of the world had learned to live in the shadows. The villagers went, too, the judge last of all, lingering until Curiosity took him aside and spoke plain words. Elizabeth watched him go from her window, debating and rejecting definitions of charity and duty in her head, her arms wound tightly around herself.
It was good to be alone again. Elizabeth took her place at the long table in Hawkeye's cabin with real relief. Hannah was to her left and Nathaniel to her right; Falling—Day sat across from her, with Many-Doves and Runs-from-Bears. Hawkeye was at one end of the table; at the other end, Chingachgook's place was empty.
They ate of fresh venison and beans and squash, and Elizabeth remembered suddenly the first meal she had had at this table, in the dead of winter. They had feasted on the turkey Hawkeye had won from Billy Kirby, and Nathaniel had shown her his plans for the schoolhouse. She had wondered then if she could ever be a part of such a family, if there might be room for her here. Now she could not imagine living without these people.
She put her hand on Nathaniel's leg, lightly, and he covered it with his own.
At the head of the table, Hawkeye was watching them, his face drawn.
"Nathaniel," he said, pushing his plate aside. "You and Bears and me need to have a talk and then I'll be on my way."
Beside Elizabeth, Hannah tensed suddenly.
"Where are you going, Grandfather?" She spoke Kahnyen’keháka, a sign of her distraction.
"Over the hills and far away," he said with a kindly smile. "I'll bring you back a treasure or two."
The women sat silently, with eyes fixed on Hawkeye. They knew it would come to this, Elizabeth thought. From the beginning, they knew. All day they have been preparing for more than one leave—taking.
But she could not be silent, not for Hannah's sake, not for her own.
"Is this really necessary?"
"Aye, lass, I fear so." Hawkeye looked down at his hands where they rested on either side of his plate. "Otherwise they'll be by, looking for me. And I won't spend another night in their gaol."
"But they have what they want, if they drive you away." Beside her, Nathaniel shifted, but he did not try to quiet her.
"Not quite. You're still here, all of you. You'll just have to carry on without me." He glanced at Hannah's stricken face. "For the time being."
Abruptly the child rose and walked over to her grandmother. "Make him stay with us," she said in a whisper.
Falling—Day put a hand on Hannah's shoulder, and closed her eyes briefly. "Your grandfather goes to look for your uncle Otter," she said, in an even tone. "When he finds him, we will all be together again. You must wish him a successful journey."
Hannah looked hard into her grandmother's eyes, and then toward Many-Doves . Many-Doves nodded firmly, and in response the child's shoulders slumped.
Elizabeth turned to Nathaniel, and saw two things: that this new loss was inevitable, and that the weight of it was almost more than he could bear.
* * *
She put Hannah to bed and read to her by the lamp; a luxury for both of them. In the pool of light, the little girl's skin seemed as smoothly polished and glowing as amber. Pausing between pages, Elizabeth found it hard to look away from her face. Such a pretty child, with a willful beauty that mesmerized and frightened all at once. Elizabeth forced her attention back to the story. Tonight, though, Hannah could not be distracted with tales of the Arabian Nights.
"Will you and my father go away, too?" she interrupted.
Elizabeth closed the book. We are not going anywhere, she wanted to say. But she knew that to sacrifice the truth in the name of comfort would be a mistake with this child. She said, "There are some things I can't be sure of but I do know that we could not be a family without you. If we must go in the end, then we will all go together."
One by one, men came forth to speak over Chingachgook. White and red, they had fought and hunted beside him; they wore their years as openly and proudly as their battle scars. In Mahican and Kahnyen’keháka and Onandaga and English, they offered their memories. The old warriors wished Chingachgook a good journey, and counted his days in words as clear and hard as wampum beads. Axel spoke, too, and the judge, a roaring mumble of regret and self—pity that made the faith keeper stare and the Kahnyen’keháka look away in shame for him.
Elizabeth swayed, and Nathaniel put an arm around her. She would ever surprise him, this wife of his. Her eyes moved over him, searching his face as her hands had explored his wounds, lightly, knowingly. He had wondered if she could bear these many hours of leave—taking; he had forgotten the depths of her strength. One day it would be his turn to walk this path, and then she would stand here with their children beside her, and she would find the words to tell the story of his days. She would outlive them all to tell the tale. He would see to it.
* * *
By sunset it was over, and the Kahnyen’keháka started to slip away in small groups over the ridge of the mountain. Once, Many-Doves told Elizabeth, there would have been days of storytelling and prayers, but no more. The Hode'noshaunee who survived in this part of the world had learned to live in the shadows. The villagers went, too, the judge last of all, lingering until Curiosity took him aside and spoke plain words. Elizabeth watched him go from her window, debating and rejecting definitions of charity and duty in her head, her arms wound tightly around herself.
It was good to be alone again. Elizabeth took her place at the long table in Hawkeye's cabin with real relief. Hannah was to her left and Nathaniel to her right; Falling—Day sat across from her, with Many-Doves and Runs-from-Bears. Hawkeye was at one end of the table; at the other end, Chingachgook's place was empty.
They ate of fresh venison and beans and squash, and Elizabeth remembered suddenly the first meal she had had at this table, in the dead of winter. They had feasted on the turkey Hawkeye had won from Billy Kirby, and Nathaniel had shown her his plans for the schoolhouse. She had wondered then if she could ever be a part of such a family, if there might be room for her here. Now she could not imagine living without these people.
She put her hand on Nathaniel's leg, lightly, and he covered it with his own.
At the head of the table, Hawkeye was watching them, his face drawn.
"Nathaniel," he said, pushing his plate aside. "You and Bears and me need to have a talk and then I'll be on my way."
Beside Elizabeth, Hannah tensed suddenly.
"Where are you going, Grandfather?" She spoke Kahnyen’keháka, a sign of her distraction.
"Over the hills and far away," he said with a kindly smile. "I'll bring you back a treasure or two."
The women sat silently, with eyes fixed on Hawkeye. They knew it would come to this, Elizabeth thought. From the beginning, they knew. All day they have been preparing for more than one leave—taking.
But she could not be silent, not for Hannah's sake, not for her own.
"Is this really necessary?"
"Aye, lass, I fear so." Hawkeye looked down at his hands where they rested on either side of his plate. "Otherwise they'll be by, looking for me. And I won't spend another night in their gaol."
"But they have what they want, if they drive you away." Beside her, Nathaniel shifted, but he did not try to quiet her.
"Not quite. You're still here, all of you. You'll just have to carry on without me." He glanced at Hannah's stricken face. "For the time being."
Abruptly the child rose and walked over to her grandmother. "Make him stay with us," she said in a whisper.
Falling—Day put a hand on Hannah's shoulder, and closed her eyes briefly. "Your grandfather goes to look for your uncle Otter," she said, in an even tone. "When he finds him, we will all be together again. You must wish him a successful journey."
Hannah looked hard into her grandmother's eyes, and then toward Many-Doves . Many-Doves nodded firmly, and in response the child's shoulders slumped.
Elizabeth turned to Nathaniel, and saw two things: that this new loss was inevitable, and that the weight of it was almost more than he could bear.
* * *
She put Hannah to bed and read to her by the lamp; a luxury for both of them. In the pool of light, the little girl's skin seemed as smoothly polished and glowing as amber. Pausing between pages, Elizabeth found it hard to look away from her face. Such a pretty child, with a willful beauty that mesmerized and frightened all at once. Elizabeth forced her attention back to the story. Tonight, though, Hannah could not be distracted with tales of the Arabian Nights.
"Will you and my father go away, too?" she interrupted.
Elizabeth closed the book. We are not going anywhere, she wanted to say. But she knew that to sacrifice the truth in the name of comfort would be a mistake with this child. She said, "There are some things I can't be sure of but I do know that we could not be a family without you. If we must go in the end, then we will all go together."
