The Morning River

  He glanced suspiciously at Willow. She seemed unaware, riding with the stately grace of Evening Star herself.

  Packrat called, pointed toward the trees, and angled away from the riders.

  With her hands, Willow signed: "You wish to avoid them? Afraid they will kill you with your Power broken?"

  He hadn't seen her look in the direction of the riders. 4 'What are you talking about?"

  She lifted her bounds hands, pointing toward the strangers.

  "How long have you known they were there?"

  "Don't know words," she answered.

  He repeated his query in signs.

  "Saw horses before we talk," she told him simply.

  "And you didn't say .. . ? Oh, forget it. I should have taken my father a bear instead of you. It would have been a lot easier." There, figure that out, witch.

  The trouble was, the riders had seen them, and were even now racing toward them.

  "Wolf, help me. I may have to fight, and this accursed woman has robbed me of Power."

  "What say?" Willow asked.

  "Nothing." He wet his lips, kicking his horse into a run. "How can I win with my Spirit Power broken, woman? When they kill me, you'd better hope they are as kind to captives as I've been!"

  And they would kill him. No warrior could win a battle when his spirit helpers had turned their heads away. Not even when fighting against animals like the Sioux.

  THIRTEEN

  Every man carries about him a touchstone, if he will make use of it, to distinguish substantial gold from superficial glitterings, truth from appearances. And indeed the use and benefit of this touchstone, which is natural reason, is spoiled and lost only by assuming prejudices, overweening presumption, and narrowing our minds. The want of exercising it, in the full extent of things intelligible, is that which weakens and extinguishes this noble faculty in us.

  —-John Locke, Why Men Reason So Poorly

  Phillip Hamilton carefully lowered his stiff leg to the carriage step until it could take his weight, then following with his good leg, and repeated the process to reach the ground. He did that now, helped by Jeffry's stabilizing hand.

  His black carriage was parked beside a rutted road that transected a rolling grassy field. To the south, the Charles River and Boston Harbor sparkled in the morning sunlight. The harbor islands made black lozenges in the silver.

  The horses stamped in their traces as Phillip grasped the head of his cane and slid it out of the carriage. Bracing himself, he turned, looking at the low grassy knolls that gave way to trees several musket shots to the north.

  Everything seemed to burst with life. The breeze off the bay carried the musky scents of saltwater and tidal marsh. The gulls cried raucously, their voices mingling with the melodious trills of the inland songbirds. Wildflowers bobbed and waved in the verdant spring grass.

  Once, nearly fifty years ago, before the harbor defenses had been built, this undulating terrain had been vital to the defense of the city.

  "Sir?" Jeffry asked. "Are you all right?"

  Phillip pointed with his cane. "Look. Cows grazing out there as if nothing had ever happened. Where once our feet trampled, now only winding cow trails remain. It's better that way, I suppose."

  "You say that every year."

  "Perhaps I do. It's only once a year I see it like this. The rest of the time, I see it in my mind. Hear it. Dirty white puffs of gunsmoke, the popping clatter of the muskets, men yelling, screaming. Battle is incredibly loud, Jeffry. The funny thing is, you barely hear it when you're in the middle of it. A bullet makes a sound when it hits flesh. Did you know that? A mixture of a pop and a splat. Men were shot down all around me. Through that roar of cannon, yelling, and clattering of ramrods, I heard those balls hitting home. But, you know, I never heard the one that hit me. One minute I was charging forward, and the next I was down. No pain. Just down, and I didn't remember how I got there."

  He relived that moment, lying facedown, men bellowing and the screaming hiss of balls cutting the air. How puzzled he'd been, that he could have taken a fall when his blood was up. How silly to trip at so important a moment. Had he stepped in a hole?

  "I didn't understand until I tried to stand." Phillip rubbed his nose, remembering. "My leg, it just wouldn't work. Wouldn't hold me. I rolled over, looked down, and saw the blood, the ripped breeches. It still didn't hurt. I just lay there with the battle raging all around me. It might have been an eternity . . . refusing to believe."

  Phillip used his cane to point part way up Breed's Hill. "Right up there. When I finally collected myself, I used my musket to pull myself up. And then I hobbled back, right through the middle of the battle and . . . Oh, I'm boring you to death. You've heard it so many times."

  "You may tell me again, sir." Jeffry smiled.

  "You're a good man to humor me so." Phillip stumped out into the grass, Jeffry at his side. "It was more important than usual to come this year."

  "Because of Master Richard?"

  "I'm worried sick about him. I let my anger goad me into something I never should have considered. I could have sent him West, yes. But not with the money, Jeffry. How incredibly foolish of me. Had I the sense God gave a rock, I'd have sent the money with you, and Richard could have been your cover. You could have protected them both."

  Jeffry frowned thoughtfully at the grass. "He must have a chance to find his way to manhood, sir. You, of all men, know the risks that entails."

  "Do you think I made a mistake?" Phillip turned to meet Jeffry's eyes.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  Jeffry's smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. "The only subject I cannot advise you on is Richard, sir. Your relationship with him provokes you beyond your normal prudence."

  An emptiness yawned within Phillip. "My grandfather was a prisoner in England, a debtor. He took out loans. Unfortunately, he went into competition with the squires. They broke him. Made him lose everything because he was running his business better than they, taking a share of their market.

  "I remembered that lesson and fought here to make a better world. I was such an idealistic young man. I had determined at that early age that I would be a soldier. Take my chances on death."

  "To fight for equality in trade?"

  "Hah! You know better than that. There is never equality in trade. He who is smarter, more industrious, and more ambitious will always dominate trade. Equal? Never. No, I was a soldier so that I could have the chance he never did, and my father barely had. The chance to make something of myself, no matter who I was descended from."

  "You were a soldier so that you could build your fortune, marry a beautiful lady, and allow your son to become a philosopher."

  "That's right." Phillip pressed the tip of his cane into the soft soil. "And I achieved all of those things. But at such a cost, Jeffry. When Caroline died, she took the light out of my soul. Now, I wonder what I have done to Richard. Why didn't I just leave him alone? Better by far than to have sent him to his death."

  He looked down at the holes he'd poked in the rich earth. Holes, like men, were ephemeral. The grass would reclaim them, and the birds would sing as if nothing had happened.

  "He's not dead."

  "Are you so sure? Feeling something in your African soul?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Did you ever long for a son?"

  "Once, sir. A long time ago. I thought you among the luckiest of men in the world. When Mrs. Hamilton died giving birth to Richard, it was a shock. Seeing what it did to you made me uneasy. Then, watching as you tried to raise Richard, my desire evaporated."

  "You could have married, you know."

  Jeffry chuckled dryly. "We've had this conversation before, sir. Nothing has changed over the years."

  "My Caroline, your Betsy. What miserable old men we are. Each defeated in love, I by death, and you by an institution. Pathetic, aren't we?"

  "No, sir. We live, and have our health. Only our dreams are dead."
>
  "And now I've cast my son to the wind."

  "At least you had him to cast, sir."

  "That is true." Phillip propped himself on his cane. "If he survives, he'll inherit the estate. Idealist that he is, he'll make you miserable. Give you lecture after lecture on freedom, self-responsibility, and free will. He'll do his damnedest to cast you out on your own."

  "Yes, sir. I'll handle him, sir. Just the same as I do you."

  "I'm sure you will." Phillip placed a hand on Jeffry's shoulder. "And thank you for helping me to believe that he'll come home one day. An old man needs his fantasies— no matter how foolish he's been with his life."

  FOURTEEN

  When I see freeborn animals, through a natural abhorrence of captivity, dash their brains out against the bars of their prison; when I see multitudes of naked savages despise European pleasures and brave hunger, fire, and sword, and death itself to preserve their independence, I feel that it is not for slaves to argue about liberty.

  —-Jean Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the Origin and Foundation of Inequality Among Mankind

  Shivers ran down Packrat's back as he watched the horses charging in his direction. He and Willow had pulled up just inside the grove of cottonwoods that covered the floodplain of the Platte.

  "Make a fort?" Willow signed. "Pile up logs?"

  Packrat gave her a dull stare. "Why fight? Dirtied by your woman's blood, I can't win. My Power is gone!"

  She said something in her language, and watched him with expressionless eyes.

  Weasel eat her guts for the trouble she was, he had other problems.

  You are going to die now, Packrat. These warriors will kill you. How will you face the Spirit World? What will happen to you when your soul arrives in a profane state?

  He ground his teeth. Loneliness and fear, old companions that they were, had never filled him with such hopelessness. The warm place deep inside, between his heart and backbone, had turned cold and empty.

  My soul is dying.

  Packrat glanced unsurely at Willow, met her mocking eyes, and slumped. His arm might have been stone as he reached out, took up her halter, and kicked his horse forward, back toward the nearing riders.

  "Come, woman. Together, you and I will die. You have destroyed me. I shall die in shame. My soul will be hounded forever. And you? I hope these are Sioux riding down on top of us. I hope they kill you slowly, maybe pour hot coals into that cunning vagina of yours. Make you suffer until you howl as I will... for all of eternity."

  No change of expression crossed her maddening eyes. Packrat tightened his grip on his war club, his thumb rubbing the familiar grain of the wood. He should kill her now, achieve that small satisfaction before death swallowed him.

  As jumpy as a woodrat in a snake's lair, he tensed to strike, and glanced again at the closing horsemen.

  As determined as he was to encounter bad luck, it took a moment for Packrat to recognize that style of dress. These were not Sioux, not bloodthirsty, howling enemies, but Skidi hunters!

  Packrat's soul slipped from resigned defeat into weary acceptance. Willow had noticed the change in his demeanor, read it correctly, and now turned her hard gaze to the riders who thundered over the last of the grassy rises. Their horses' hooves chopped through a patch of prickly pear, dust and bits of cactus flying up behind.

  "Screams At His Enemies and Blue Bull Robe," Packrat identified the hunters. But what were they doing out here?

  "Packrat!" Screams At His Enemies waved, whooping and shrieking.

  The two yipped and slapped their sweating horses, cutting circles around Packrat and Willow in a mad display of horsemanship. Through it all, Packrat sat quietly and considered his options.

  Screams At His Enemies was the first to notice his reticence. "Hey, Packrat!" He pulled up on his horse, trotting closer. "You look as if you haven't slept for days! This woman you have captured, she's that much of a wild one, eh?"

  "By the stars," Blue Bull Robe muttered, "she's beautiful. I'll trade a couple of horses for the likes of her!"

  Screams At His Enemies nodded. "Good catch, Packrat.

  When you steal a woman, you take the most comely, don't you? No wonder you look tired! If I had her in my robes at night, I wouldn't sleep either!"

  "What's the matter, Packrat?" Blue Bull Robe shouted. "Have you pumped her so full of your seed that there's nothing left inside you?"

  Packrat chose his course of action. He would preserve as much of his honor as possible. He raised his hands, imploring, "Come no closer!"

  Blue Bull Robe cocked his head, but reined in his horse. Screams At His Enemies slowed his animal and trotted it over beside Blue Bull Robe's.

  "This woman!" Packrat cried. "She is bad luck—she breaks a man's Power. Since I captured her, my friends, I have dreamed, seen her consorting with Weasel, Mole, and Owl. Keep your distance!"

  Screams At His Enemies slumped forward, arms crossed on his horse's neck, a quizzical look on his face. "So, if she's so bad, what are you doing with her? Why not whack her in the head, take your coup, and be done with her?"

  "I have started this thing. If I kill her, she will win. I think it's a matter of Power, something that I don't really understand yet. No, I must finish this the way I started."

  "But if she's evil," Blue Bull Robe noted, "why stay close to her?"

  "A man must trust the voices within him. Mine tell me that the only way I can survive this is by finishing what I have started. You know the stories, about the way the Spirit World tests a man. I must succeed or fail. Power will judge me.

  "Ah!" Blue Bull Robe nodded. "You have caught the bobcat by the ears. Now, you must find a way to let loose without getting scratched and bitten. But I don't understand. If she's dangerous, where are you taking her? A smart young man like you wouldn't bring a sorcerer into our village."

  Packrat chewed his lip. When a polluted young man brought a Snake woman who might be a sorcerer into the Skidi village, no matter what happened, all the bad luck, illness, and death would be blamed on him. Of course he'd be guilty. People would know he was paying the Doctors for healing and soul cleansing.

  Packrat rubbed his face as he thought. That bobcat analogy fit better than a new pair of stitched buffalo-calf britches. "She is a gift, my friends. For Half Man. A tribute from his son, if you will."

  Screams At His Enemies tilted his head. "Give a woman to Half Man? After what he did to your mother? Of all the worthless ..." A sudden glimmer of understanding lit in his eyes. "By Morning Star! You wouldn't!"

  "Yes, he would!" Blue Bull Robe cried, catching on. "What a way to pay the old weasel back! Oh, Packrat, you will shame him. People will nod knowingly, and laugh at Half Man behind their blankets. How clever and cunning you are! Worthy of Evening Star's grace!"

  Packrat watched woodenly. "But first, I must be cleansed, my friends. She has polluted me with her woman's blood. Do you understand?"

  Blue Bull Robe backed his horse away.

  Screams At His Enemies inspected Willow with interest. "She is a Snake woman, what do you expect? Don't look so wounded, Packrat. The same thing happened to my cousin, Takes Things. You know him, don't you? Lives over with the Loups. You just have to go to the Doctors. It will cost you everything you own, but they will cleanse you."

  "It could be worse," Blue Bull Robe called from his greater distance. "At least you can be cleansed . . . and then you can call your Power back."

  "What are you doing out here?" Packrat asked, more than ready to change the subject.

  "What does anyone do out here? The keeper of the Skull Bundle sent us. He saw a strange formation in the stars and thought someone should go and scout before the Chiefs don their costumes to become Heaven in the opening ceremonies for the hunt. We're looking for buffalo, checking the grass to see how it is growing and where it will take the summer herds."

  "The grass isn't as good as it could be." Packrat pointed back to the west. "Not as much rain this spring. We've seen buffalo all the way from
the Snake lands, mostly scattered in small herds."

  To Packrat's annoyance, Screams At His Enemies kept staring at Willow with open admiration. "Hunting will be easier. The buffalo will be close to water."

  "The rains could always come," Blue Bull Robe noted. "Maybe that's what the keeper of the Skull Bundle saw in the stars."

  The summer hunt was one of Packrat's favorite times of year. Unless he could be ritually cleansed, he'd miss it this year. During the hunt a young man could prove his prowess to his peers, and, of course, the young women would be watching. But in his current state, the Hunt Chiefs would never let him close to the animals, for his pollution would offend the buffalo, and enrage the spirit helpers.

  "It is good to see you, friends," Packrat told them. "I, however, must hurry on. The sooner I get to the Skidi and give this woman to Half Man, the sooner I can be cleansed and take my place with real people again."

  Screams At His Enemies grinned sardonically. "Your luck is truly gone, Packrat. After the Breaking-Ground ceremonies, Half Man left for the La-chi-kuts fort on the great river. He's going to trade for their medicine water, maybe stop and grovel with his 'other' people." Screams At His Enemies wouldn't even deign to speak the name of the Omaha.

  Packrat knotted a fist and shook it in empty rage. Through slitted eyes he glanced at Willow. You did this, didn't you? Made sure that he wouldn’t be there.

  "I wouldn't take her to the village," Blue Bull Robe added. "Not if you think she might be a sorcerer. No one would welcome that. Not even her beauty would do her— or you—much good."

  "Half Man will return before the summer hunt?" Packrat could hang around the vicinity of the main Skidi village, waiting until the proper moment to bestow his gift.

  Screams At His Enemies laughed as he fingered his horse's mane. "You know Half Man. He'll time his return to the moment the hunt is over. Just like he'll leave again just before the harvest. He won't dare take the chance that he might have to work!"