Storyteller

I needed water. I needed to eat.

  I looked around me in the dim light. The linens for my hands lay across the cave floor. I must have shaken everything out of the bag, because Mother’s spoon was on the ground, too, and so was the map Father had drawn.

  I pulled in my breath. The meat was gone. An animal had come close to me during the days I had been there. A small animal, I hoped. I shuddered, thinking about it.

  Never mind. Water first.

  I’d have to go down the mountain to the river.

  It was so far, too far.

  It had to be done. I inched my way out of the cave, holding the jug under one arm.

  Outside, the sun’s narrow rays filtered through the trees. I held my face up to the light, to the warmth. I was alive.

  I heard the gurgle of water nearby and looked up. A thin stream splashed its way down the side of the mountain. I ran forward and knelt, my face in that water, gulping, drinking until I couldn’t hold any more. I leaned forward. With both palms holding the jug, I managed to fill it.

  How lovely it would be to stay there for a while, to soak up the sun, to listen to the water spilling over the rocks. But I had to use my time well.

  I went back to the cave and took the filthy linens to the stream. I couldn’t pound them, but I held the ends and let them drift in the water until they were the color of cream again.

  I moved into the deepest part of the stream, hands raised, and let the water do its work. It leeched the mud out of my petticoats, and underneath, my feet and legs felt new and clean.

  The rocks were slippery. I took a misstep, and my feet went out from under me. I slid gently into the water.

  How cold it was, icy; my teeth began to chatter. Gently, I lowered my hands into that cold. I sat there until I was bathed to my neck, my clothes floating around me.

  I would find Father. I would find John. And together we’d go back and take what was ours.

  zee

  EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

  That night stars crowded the sky. I stood outside the cave. Hunger gnawed at me. I would leave here as soon as it was daylight, and find food.

  Last fall, I’d walked through the trees with Isaac. Last fall, when we were neighbors. We had eaten together at the Patchins’ farm, sharing the partridge, the elk, the deer, our faces stained red from elderberry juice.

  I clamped my teeth together, my stomach twisting. It’s all right, I told myself. I’m all right. My fever was gone.

  Everything was ready. My clothes were almost dry against my body. The poultice was thick on my hands, and the clean linen cloths were wrapped around them. The map was tucked inside my bodice, and so was Old Gerard’s knife.

  For one more night I’d sleep in this cave that had sheltered me, then I’d go forward.

  There was a rustle in the trees that surrounded me.

  I saw …

  What did I see?

  Just the outline, the glow of eyes in the darkness.

  A sound I could never describe.

  An animal moved out of the trees toward me, growling deep in its throat.

  I reached down, groping for a branch, for a rock, for anything to drive it away. But I had forgotten my useless fingers. I felt nothing. There was only the sound of brittle leaves as I disturbed them.

  The animal sank down, watching me. Waiting.

  I thought of Miller’s warning. Was this an animal coming to claim its cave?

  I had the knife. But how would my fingers wrap themselves around it? And to use that knife meant the animal had to be so close I would feel its breath on me.

  I glanced at the cave entrance. Would I be trapped in there? I took a step away from the animal, away from the cave. I took a second step, and a third, putting a tree between us, careful of my feet as I moved, my eyes fixed on the animal. If I slipped—

  But I wouldn’t slip. I was determined not to slip.

  I kept moving away until the animal was blocked from my view. At last, I turned and ran, bare feet landing hard on twigs, sharp stones cutting the soles, blisters breaking. Still I didn’t stop until I had reached the top of the mountain.

  In the light of the moon, I was able to look down and see our valley: the Patchins’ house, the willow trees along the river, and our own fields.

  I turned. Ahead of me, the trees were too thick to see the valley on the other side. But I knew it was there, with its bands of angry Iroquois, and roving troops of British soldiers. I would never see the Indians until it was too late; they moved swiftly, silently, as I well knew. Hadn’t Old Gerard taught me to do the same?

  But the British regulars were different. I had heard they were arrogant, dressed in their red coats, cocked hats on their heads. And what about those who wore the green jackets? The Royal Greens, they were called. Afraid of no one, they marched along in their shiny boots, proud of themselves and glad to be seen. I would hear them coming long before they heard me.

  I was wide awake now and the path downward stood out clearly, so I went on, moving quickly. The land leveled out before morning, and I stopped to suck the moisture out of the low-hanging leaves.

  Late in the day I rested. I was dizzy without food and longed for my first sight of the river. I thought of bass, gleaming silver. I thought of pickerel. Even the eels Gerard and I had caught each spring would taste well smoked over a fire.

  A fire.

  I was almost a day away from the cave. It was too late to go back. And what had I left there? The fire sticks. The poultice. But worse, much worse, all that was left of Mother was gone. The small spoon, smooth from years of use, and the kettle. How could I have forgotten?

  I drew myself up against a tree. Somehow I would fish, somehow I would manage to eat what I caught without a fire.

  And one day, I promised myself, I’d go back to the cave and find what I’d left behind.

  By noon I reached a river and saw a small cabin perched at the edge of the water. I kept to the shelter of the trees and watched, but no smoke came from the chimney, no hens wandered around the front, pecking at the earth.

  Still I waited, hardly able to stand, I was so hungry. I remembered the rabbit escaping from the hawk that day, and thought of the meal he might have made.

  I tried to flex my fingers in their linen wraps but they bent only the slightest bit. The skin had grown so itchy it seemed worse than pain. I took off the linen and scratched at my hands until they bled.

  All the time I waited for someone to come outside, but I heard no voices. I went forward at last, up the worn path to the door. It swung open under my fingers.

  When my eyes grew used to the dim moonlight, I saw food: strawberries in a bowl, early peas, blueberry preserves, a round of cheese on the table.

  Food. I threw myself on it and ate.

  elizabeth

  TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY

  Elizabeth works with Libby in the kitchen, packing a picnic lunch of sorts: slices of turkey on deli rolls, bakery cupcakes with swirls of chocolate icing, and a couple of bananas with dark spots on the peels.

  Libby stands at the counter. She pats the sandwich bags and the cupcakes, wrapped in foil. “Ah,” she says, and adds a six-pack of water.

  “I think we should take the drawing with us,” Elizabeth says, “and show it to Harry.”

  But Libby shakes her head. “Better we keep Zee here, where she belongs.”

  Elizabeth wanders into the hall and stares up at Zee’s face. How did she ever think Zee wasn’t pretty? No, pretty is the wrong word. There’s something else going on there; whatever it is escapes her.

  She runs her finger over the glass, following the strand of hair that forms a line across Zee’s cheek. She touches the wisps of Zee’s eyebrows, the smudges on her kerchief.

  Did the artist put those smudges in? Was she that much of a mess, or have the marks gotten there by themselves all these years?

  And what about the artist?

  Libby comes in from the kitchen, wiping her hands, and looks over Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I wonder w
ho drew this. There’s love in every line.”

  Elizabeth looks up at Libby in surprise. She sees the same thing.

  If only she’d shown the drawing to Mrs. Baxter, the art teacher at school, when she had the chance. Mrs. Baxter was talking about “seeing the artist through his work.” It’s a shock to understand what she meant. Mrs. Baxter might not be such a flake after all. “If you look carefully,” she said, waving her paint-stained hands around, “you’ll see more than you expected. It’s the same with people.” Everyone laughed, because she’d rubbed her cheek and left a smear of bright blue paint there, too.

  At last Elizabeth and Libby are in the car, backing out of the driveway. It’s almost eleven. What has happened to this morning? Elizabeth has to hold on to today. It has to last her forever.

  Libby glances at her. “We’ll take Route Seventeen north past Deposit. Of course, towns weren’t there during the Revolutionary War, just small farms.”

  Elizabeth realizes suddenly that they’ve both been talking easily together lately, and even when they’re silent, they’re comfortable with each other.

  Libby begins to tell her about her mother. “Sisty made up stories at night when the two of us were falling asleep.” Libby turns to her. “I told you that we slept in the bedroom that’s yours now.”

  Elizabeth pictures her mother tracing the outlines of the quilt houses with her fingers, imagining people who lived in the houses, as Elizabeth has been doing.

  She leans her forehead against the window as the Catskill Mountains rise on each side of them. Everything is green, washed-looking, and sparkling streams flash by. A fisherman in waders stands knee-deep in the water, his line an arc over his head.

  They stop in a rest area to eat, Elizabeth taking quick bites of her sandwich, hardly tasting what’s in her mouth.

  They drive on, the bright sun overhead. Elizabeth closes her eyes, dozing; music from the radio lulls her. She feels the car turning, the wheels scattering stones on gravel as they leave the highway. She sits up straight, rubbing the pins and needles out of one foot on the back of her other leg.

  They’re almost there, going through mountains that Zee must have seen, might have climbed. Elizabeth studies the narrow river that winds around; it’s almost as if the river is leading them on. She glances up at those mountains glittering in the strong light.

  They look as if they’re talking to each other, commenting maybe on the sun warming their rocky bones.

  Her mouth goes dry.

  In front of them are three gentle peaks covered in green.

  The tallest is in the center.

  Three triangles.

  Elizabeth can hardly breathe. A bird glides over one of the peaks, and she knows the feeling it must have. She feels as if she’s flying now, as if she’s gliding.

  She keeps staring at those mountains. She knows what they mean; she knows those triangles.

  How is it that she and Libby hadn’t guessed what the lines meant?

  On back of Zee’s drawing is a map. And it begins here.

  zee

  EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

  I’d eaten too much, too quickly. I put my hands on the roundness of my waist, smoothed down the fullness of my skirt. All that food made me sleepy, and the pallet in front of the hearth was inviting. But first I looked at Father’s map; I studied the lines, wondering how long it would take to work my way through them.

  As I looked around that small house, I saw that the strawberries were fresh, their color a sharp red. They’d been picked today, or yesterday. Someone must live here; someone who might be back soon.

  Suddenly I was wide awake. I scrambled out the door, closing it behind me, and ran for the trees. I didn’t stop until I was well away from the house, glancing back over my shoulder, wishing I were faster, wishing I had not eaten so much. Looking backward instead of forward. Creating enough noise to alert every animal that might be nearby.

  What would Old Gerard have said to me, raising one leathery finger after the other?

  Do nothing without a plan.

  Go silently.

  Face your enemies.

  None of that did I do. I crashed through the trees, stones sharp under my feet, roots waiting to trip me. I was out of breath, gasping—

  And ran headlong into two men.

  Behind them a group of five or six more came silently, slipping around the trees at my side.

  Please. Let them be on my side. Let them be Patriots.

  How strange that both Patriots and Loyalists looked the same, dressed the same, loved the land the way I did. How did I know, then, that this was the enemy?

  I knew.

  Old Gerard’s voice was in my mind: Show strength, never weakness. But that I could not do. I stared at them, surrounding me now. I was terrified, my useless hands out in front of me.

  “Who are you?” one of them asked. He wasn’t young. His face was as leathery as Old Gerard’s, but his eyes were gray, pale and angry.

  “I am Zee.” My voice sounded strange. I hadn’t used it since I’d left home.

  “Spying.” His eyes were hard now, like chips of stone.

  I began to shake my head. But then I saw who stood toward the back of them. Isaac, with his sunburned face, the freckles scattered across his nose! And he saw me.

  I drew in my breath.

  How old had we been, Isaac and I? Ten? Splashing at the edge of Big Fish Water. “Don’t move,” he’d said. He was strong even then; he had both hands around my waist, swinging me out and above the water to escape a snake moving under us, a slow-moving wave.

  I stared at him now. You could never forget me, Isaac. I am Zee. We are—

  “She’s a friend,” Isaac said, coming to stand next to me. “A neighbor.”

  “Someday—” he had said.

  He looked at me now with the smile I’d seen since the day Father had guided the boat ashore and built our house, the boy I had kissed that day in the river as he’d set me safely down away from the water moccasin. I had seen that smile only for me.

  I saw the shock in his face. Was it because we were there in this forsaken woods? Or was it because of the state I was in?

  He lifted his hand, and I could see he was wondering about my own. “She’s going to safety in the north,” he said. “Going to Canada, where it is easier to be loyal to the king.”

  “Alone?” What disbelief there was in the man’s gruff voice!

  “They are behind me, my family; they are coming,” I said.

  The man gave his head a quick shake, staring first at me, and then at Isaac. But finally he turned to the others. “We’ll go back to the cabin to eat.”

  I heard the intake of my breath. What would they do to Isaac when they saw what I had done?

  “I took cheese,” I said. “I took fruit.”

  To my amazement, the man began to laugh. “Such honesty makes me think you must be one of us,” he said, his eyes dancing.

  Then they were gone without disturbing a leaf or a twig, gone silently. All except for Isaac.

  “I will walk a way with you,” he said.

  He reached out to take my hand. But I couldn’t let him do that. It was not only because of the pain it might cause, but because I knew how those hands would feel to him: coarse, the skin stretched and webbed. My nails were cracked; I was going to lose them.

  I stepped away from him, but he put his hands on my arms, his face close to mine. “What happened, Zee?”

  I could hardly speak, and when I did, my voice was bitter. “They killed Mother and burned the house.”

  “Who?”

  I shook my head. “I couldn’t see them clearly. Not English, though. Whoever it was knew the land. One of them followed me.”

  Isaac would come with me now. I wouldn’t be alone.

  He straightened my cap gently. “Did you not think to go to my parents?”

  “They are gone to Canada. Ammy told me.”

  “Canada!” I heard the pain in his voice. “Canada!” He took a
breath. “And so you are seeking your brother.”

  I nodded.

  “I promise you this,” he said, and there might have been tears in his eyes. “This fight will be over, perhaps even in a year, Zee. The king’s men will win, of course. You know that. We will go back and rebuild your house, and someday—”

  Someday—

  Anger roared through me. “I have lost almost everything.” I held out my hands. “Do you think I will ever live under a king? I will fight with my father and my brother. Make no mistake, Isaac. We will win because we are desperate to win.”

  I didn’t wait for him to answer. I brushed past him, then turned. “There is still the land. You will never take that from us.”

  zee

  EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

  It was a long way north. The days ran into each other as I walked through the forest. And then weeks. There was no church meeting to prepare for on Sunday, no cheese pan to turn, no wash to hang on Monday.

  But I knew the hours. I watched the trail of the sun as it beamed through the thick trees; its first sighting in the east would have been the moment to let the hens out, to throw the corn in golden arcs as they pecked at my feet.

  With the sun straight over my head, warming my cap, it would have been time for cheese and a crust in front of the hearth, and sometimes on Sundays, a meal of one of the hens. Later I’d escape from the house to lean on the split rail fence and talk to Isaac.

  I didn’t want to think about Isaac.

  I followed the wider river that Father had marked on the map, finding berries to fill my mouth. They never quite filled my stomach.

  I slept after that. And sometimes when I awoke, in spite of myself, I thought of Isaac. I told myself I would never see him again, and that was the truth of it. After the war, if our side won, Isaac would follow the big mountains to the east, around the lakes to Canada. He’d spend his days near Mistress Patchin, with her quick tongue, with kind Mr. Patchin, and Ammy.

  Oh, Ammy.

  And oh, Isaac. He’d have another girl to swing up out of a river. He’d sit with another girl on a split rail fence.