Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (7 page)

He didn’t think so. Rowtag was as fierce a warrior as he was devoted a father, and Fallon imagined that he met death with the same enthusiasm he had demonstrated in life. Why, then, did his son walk to death in hopelessness?

He paused for a moment, ostensibly to catch his breath, as his mind raced. There had to be a way out. “The important things in battle are always simple,” Rowtag had said. “But the simple things are always hard.” Fallon knew the important thing was escape, but how to accomplish it?

Opechancanough had dispatched only one warrior to handle the execution of a scrawny thirteen-year-old boy, and mayhap therein lay the advantage. Rowtag had often said that victory could be found in knowing one’s enemy, and when the sharp spear of the executioner pricked the broken skin on his back again, Fallon whirled to study the face of the man who escorted him to death.

The brave was young, probably not more than twenty-and-one, and mayhap he looked upon this as a chance to procure Opechancanough’s favor. Surely he did not expect trouble from a pale English boy, particularly one who walked with heavy steps while tears glistened upon his cheeks.

In the flutter of a moment, Fallon made his decision and broke into a run. It took a long second for the warrior to realize that the quarry had fled, and in that instant Fallon veered toward a stand of trees, for ‘twas a simple matter for a warrior to spear a target in front of him.

As he had hoped, the spear flew through the air and landed firmly in the ground ahead of him, and Fallon dashed behind the safety of a tree. While the warrior reached forward for the spear, taking his eyes from Fallon, Fallon dashed for another tree, and began to play the “hiding game” he had so often enjoyed with the children. “If a foolish plan works,” he muttered to himself as he heard his enemy curse in frustration, “it isn’t foolish.”

The trick, Fallon knew, was to exchange places. The prey had to become the hunter.

The warrior advanced expectantly toward the trees, his eyes searching the shadows, his spear upthrust behind him in one hand, his battle-axe in the other. Fallon held his breath, mentally urging the warrior closer. One moment too soon and he would feel the bite of the spear through his ribs, one moment too late and the battle-axe would crush his skull.

Closer. Fallon could hear the soft crunch of last winter’s dead leaves beneath the warrior’s feet.

Closer. He could see the delicate tattoo markings on the warrior’s forearms.

Now. The warrior passed the spot where Fallon hid behind the tree, and his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of his prey. The spear was useless at such a short distance, and before he could swing the club, Fallon kicked the warrior’s kneecap and brought his executioner down.

Fallon fell on him and they scuffled silently in the dirt while Fallon cursed the bindings that held his hands tightly behind his back. But a swift knee kick to the groin left the warrior writhing in pain upon the ground, and Fallon took that opportunity to stand and place his moccasined foot firmly upon the warrior’s neck.

The man froze, afraid to move. His eyes rolled back, staring at Fallon above him, and an eerie, whining song began to rise from the warrior’s mouth.

“Stop the death song,” Fallon commanded in the Algonquin tongue, applying gentle pressure to the man’s neck. “I will not kill you unless you think it more important to retain honor than your life.”

The man fell silent and regarded Fallon soberly. “You can go back to the village and tell them I am dead,” Fallon said, twisting his foot on the man’s neck to reinforce his intention. “No one will doubt you, for your spear is already stained with my blood. Or, you can pursue me further, but next time I will not have mercy.”

The warrior’s eyes narrowed in speculation, but Fallon forced a smile. “Do not doubt that we will meet again, for I am the son of Rowtag, chief of the Mangoaks at Ocanahonan. I am also an Englishman, and I know things you have not dreamed of.”

The threat was enough. The man’s hands relaxed around his sword and spear, and he stared at Fallon in resignation. “Good,” Fallon said, easing the pressure slightly from the man’s neck. “You will lie here silently until I am safely away. If you stir or move again, I will return.”

The warrior’s face appeared to be set in stone, and he did not move when Fallon lifted his foot and moved away. For a moment Fallon considered asking the warrior to cut the tongs of leather that bound him, but knew he’d be pressing the warrior too far. ‘Twas one thing to defeat an enemy, ‘twas another to humiliate him.

And so, running as if the hounds of hell were giving chase, Fallon ran eastward through the woods. In that direction lay the ocean, the source of his help, if help was to be found at all.

Gilda understood very little of what had happened to her. Fallon, whom she loved and trusted, had taken her from her home to a place where Indians danced and children ran naked and she and Noshi played hide and seek in the forest. Then other Indians came and tied their hands and marched them far away to another village. Noshi and Fallon were with her for a moment, then they disappeared.

She mourned for days with tears and temper tantrums that the other women could not staunch, then a young girl of about Fallon’s age came into the hut. She did not try to soothe or scold, but merely sat on a grass mat and watched as Gilda cried and beat her fists upon the ground. When Gilda finally lay exhausted, the older girl smiled. “I am Matoaka,” she said, her eyes shining in friendliness. “But my father calls me Pocahontas because I like to play.”

Gilda lifted her head. “I want Noshi and Fallon,” she cried stubbornly, her fists still clenched. “I want to go home.”

“Your home is with me now,” Pocahontas said, standing. From a basket at her side she held up a rabbit skin, beautifully embroidered on one side, thick with fur on the other. “And I have made this skirt for you. I shall call you Numees, because from this day you will be my sister.”

“My name is Gilda,” she protested, her temper rising again. But a colorful design of houses, corn, and rain danced across the beautiful skin in Pocahontas’ arms . . .

“Let me wrap this around you,” Pocahontas said, moving closer. In a moment she had lifted the dirty linen dress from Gilda’s shoulders, then she carefully wrapped the embroidered fur around Gilda’s waist and fastened it with a pin made from the antlers of a deer.

Gilda stopped crying long enough to take a few practice
steps in the lush garment.

Seven

Fallon Bailie

When Heaven is about to confer a great office

on any man, it first exercises his mind with suffering,

and his sinews and bones with toil.

—Mencius

The river carried them away.

The little girl woke with a sharp tingling in her arm and shifted uncomfortably between the side of the canoe and the soft, plump body of her playmate. Noshi still snored gently beside her, but Fallon lay awake, his blue eyes wide and alert under the thin grass mat that covered them in the canoe.

“I’m hungry,” Gilda announced, looking to Fallon. At thirteen, he had often been entrusted with the care of the two younger children, and Gilda was accustomed to his careful authority. “Are we done with the hiding game?”

Fallon did not answer, but lay his finger across his lips and carefully stretched his long legs out toward the bow of the canoe. A shaft of bright morning sunlight fell upon his freckled face as he gingerly lifted a corner of the woven grass mat, and Gilda saw him squint as he sniffed the air outside.

“Nothing,” he whispered, a satisfied smile flitting across his face. “Mayhap we can land the canoe here.”

With the inbred caution of one who had lived a lifetime in the wilderness, Fallon turned onto his stomach and slowly rose upon his knees. The canoe rocked gently in the water and the motion woke Noshi, who opened his eyes and thrust his thumb into his mouth. “Where’s Mama?” he mumbled around the thumb, his green eyes still heavy with sleep.

“You two stay under the mat,” Fallon whispered, dragging his hand in the water to turn the drifting canoe toward the shore. “Don’t move or say aught until I tell you there is no danger.”

For the first time since waking, Gilda felt a tremor of fear. Last night her mama and papa had smiled as they kissed her and sent her to the river to play the hiding game, but their eyes had been dark and moist with tears. Fallon and Noshi’s parents had been serious, too, as they hugged the boys and told them to be careful. Gilda closed her eyes and remembered her mother’s fervent embrace. ‘Twas unusual for her mother and father to hug her so fiercely. And she had never been allowed to play a hiding game at night.

Gilda’s chubby hand reached for the strip of leather tied ‘round her neck. Her mother’s last gift to her, a gold ring, dangled from the supple leather. “Always remember the ring,” her mother had whispered after slipping the necklace around Gilda’s neck. “Know that I love you. And God will go with
you always.”

God will go with me where?
Gilda tilted her head back to watch Fallon guide the boat. Why had the grownups sent the children away? And when would they be allowed to return?

She resisted the temptation to worry. Fallon was nearly a man, and old enough to take care of both her and Noshi. He would not let anything happen to them.

Fallon Bailie, son of the late Englishman Roger Bailie and proud stepson of Rowtag, a chief of the Mangoak tribe, quietly guided the canoe with his hands until the current pushed the boat onto a sandy beach. The air was clear here; he could smell nothing but the crisp scent of pine and the earthy perfume of spring. No aromas of Indian cook fires spiced the morning air, nor could he detect the bitter tang of destruction. The battle that surely raged at Ocanahonan lay far upstream, north of them.

The three refugees had drifted downstream all night, and as Fallon stepped out of the canoe into the shallow water he was momentarily tempted to surrender to the overwhelming sense of loss and grief that threatened to engulf him. His mother, Audrey Bailie, was either fighting for her life or she lay dead beneath the enemy’s war axe. Mayhap she needed him even now, or called his name. Tall and strong, and already much a man, he could have defended her, but Rowtag had insisted that he take the two little ones to safety.

They peered even now over the nose of the canoe like frightened cubs afraid to come out of their den. Noshi was his half brother, the son of Rowtag and Audrey, and though he had been granted the handsome copper skin and dark hair of his father, his eyes were his mother’s and as green, she declared, as the emerald hills of Ireland. Gilda Colman possessed the same unusual blend of Indian and English features: golden skin, dark hair, and startlingly blue eyes. The little girl, who had yet to see her fourth birthday, had been like a younger sister to Fallon ever since Jocelyn Colman had asked Fallon’s mother to be Gilda’s wet nurse.

Only a few months apart, Gilda and Noshi had grown up together, and Fallon had been their constant, if sometimes reluctant, protector. Of late he had thought himself too much a man to be serving as a nursemaid for the little ones, but Rowtag had honored him last night when he placed his broad hands on Fallon’s shoulders and charged him to protect
Gilda’s and Noshi’s lives together with his own. The responsibility he had always endured now became a challenge.

After bringing his finger again to his lips to silence the children, he pulled the canoe from the water, firmly beaching it upon the sand. Crouching behind a screen of greening shrubs, he looked down the beach, then studied the sky.

Through the sun-shot leaves of the towering trees, the sky was crisp and blue with not a single cloud to mar the horizon. They were far, then, from the war party that had surrounded Ocanahonan at dusk. For the moment, they were safe, but worry tormented his mind. Had the enemy seen their canoe slip away? Would the bloodlust of battle drive them downstream in pursuit?

Noshi’s familiar whine interrupted his thoughts. “I’m hungry, Fallon,” Noshi whimpered, his thumb still in his mouth. “Where’s Mama?”

Fallon felt his resolve slip. If he thought about his mother and Rowtag, if he considered even for a moment that their entire world was under attack, he would not be able to do his duty. Better to pretend that they were hunting.

“We want Mama and Papa to be proud of us, don’t we?” Fallon asked, turning to the young ones. “They asked us to hide in the boat, and now they want us to gather our own food. Rowtag would not want us to complain, but to do our work well.”

“I can make a fish hook,” Noshi said, thrusting his chubby leg over the side of the boat. “Watch me.”

“I can help,” Gilda answered, splashing into the water behind Noshi.

“Good,” Fallon said, forcing a smile. He knelt to look into the children’s eyes. “Do not wander from the boat. If you see or hear anyone approaching, run and play the hiding game in the woods. Do not come out for anyone but me, do you hear?”

“Yea,” Noshi answered, plopping himself into the mud at the water’s edge. “I will make a hook and we will catch a fish for breakfast, Fallon.”

“Do that, then,” Fallon said. He turned toward the woods, then paused and looked back at the children. Gilda sat in the sand next to Noshi, scouring the mud for a sharp stick. Both were occupied, and if all went well, they would not stir.

Fallon paused to whisper a prayer for success, then darted into the woods.

Though European blood ran undiluted in his veins, Fallon had been reared as the son of an Indian, and he had learned his lessons well. By the river’s edge he found a nest with five eggs and he took three, knowing the mother bird would not desert the nest as long as an egg remained. Under a rotting log he found a generous collection of grubs and termites, which he scraped into the leather bag that hung at his waist. The grubs and eggs would do for breakfast, and as long as they traveled near the water he knew they would find food. Further downstream he would lay snares and trap animals as they came to drink at the water.

He smiled in pleased surprise when he returned and found that Noshi had actually managed to make an excellent fish hook of splintered wood. Gilda had pulled long fibers from reeds growing at the water’s edge for a fishing line. “Here,” Fallon said, slipping one of the juicy grubs into the pointed barb of the hook. “Y’are ready to fish. But first, you need to eat something.”

Gilda crinkled her nose at the sight of the grubs. “Ugh,” she said, shaking her head. “I won’t eat those.”

“You’ve had them before in stew, you’ve just never had them raw,” Fallon said, pushing a handful of the insects toward her. “You need to eat, Gilda, if y’are going to be strong.”

“I’m strong already,” she said, her lower lip edging forward in a pout. “And I won’t eat bugs.”

“Then eat this egg.” He handed her an egg, which she accepted with a dubious expression. Fallon showed her how to chip away the top of the shell and swallow the egg in one gulp. Noshi took an egg and imitated his older brother exactly, and, not wanting to be bested, Gilda followed their example, albeit reluctantly.

“Rowtag said we must be strong if we are to survive,” Fallon said, fastening the two children with a stern glance. “You must obey me and not argue. If I say eat, you will eat. If not, you will die.”

Gilda’s lower lip trembled, and for a moment Fallon feared she would cry. But then she pressed her rosebud lips together in a remarkable show of courage and walked back to the water’s edge where her fishing line lay.

Fallon sighed in relief and tossed the grubs onto the ground, unable to eat the squirming things himself.

They spent the morning fishing on the riverbank, then Fallon selected dark and dry wood for a nearly smokeless fire. While their five fish roasted, Fallon napped while the young ones played quietly among the bushes. As the day began to die, Fallon wrapped the roasted fish in wide green leaves and told the children to climb back into the boat.

“Where are we going, Fallon?” Noshi asked as he lay down next to Gilda inside the canoe. “Can’t we go home?”

Fallon automatically looked northward up the river, but nothing stirred on the blue-brown surface of the water. If their parents had survived the attack on Ocanahonan, surely one of them would have come down the river. But not a living soul had stirred from the north.

“We can’t go home again,” Fallon said, pushing the canoe off the bank. “Mama and Papa are of certain dead, Noshi. Your Mama and Papa are dead, too, Gilda. They wanted us to find a safe place.”

Noshi stared at Fallon in disbelief, but Gilda’s bright blue eyes filled up with tears. Fallon immediately regretted telling her the truth. Suppose she cried and wailed all night? He had planned for them to drift quietly downriver under the cover of darkness, but if he had to deal with a screaming youngster—

But she did not make a sound. A sad little sigh escaped her lips as tears rolled from her eyes, and she pressed her fist into her mouth, a strangely adult gesture for one so young. Noshi began to cry noisily, and Gilda quietly threw her arms around his neck and held him tight. Fallon loaded the fish into the canoe, then pushed it into the current. Climbing into the boat beside the children, he pulled the grass mat over their heads and dashed bitter tears of reality from his own eyes.

Fallon could sense their questions and fear, but he did not want to talk about the death of their village. After drifting for some time in the darkness as the children squirmed restlessly, he made an effort to lighten his voice. “Can’t you go to sleep?”

“No,” Gilda answered, wriggling against the side of the canoe. “Noshi’s elbow is in my belly.”

“I can’t help it,” Noshi protested, turning from Gilda. He lay his hands on Fallon’s chest. “I’m scared, Fallon. ‘Tis dark and quiet out here.”

“There is naught to fear,” Fallon said with a confidence he did not feel. He ran his hand through Noshi’s thick, dark hair. “I know—let’s practice the catechism that the minister taught us. We’ll say it over and over until we know it by heart.”

“I already know it,” Gilda said proudly. “Start it, Fallon.”

“Let me get more comfortable.” Fallon shifted in the narrow space until he lay flat on his back. Delighted at the change in positions, Noshi rolled over him and lay against the canoe on his left side, and Gilda snuggled under his arm on his right.

Fallon tented his fingers on his chest. “What is your name?”

“That’s easy,” Gilda said, giggling. “Gilda Colman.”

Fallon lifted his head to look at his brother. “And you? Surely you have a name?”

“Noshi,” the boy said, punching Fallon playfully in the ribs. “You know my name.”

“Aye,” Fallon answered, relaxing against the canoe. “And who gave you this name?”

“My mother and father,” the children recited together, sitting up in their eagerness, “who wish to bring me up in the knowledge of Christ.”

“Very good,” Fallon said, grateful that the challenge seemed to have dispelled their fear. “Now rehearse the articles of your belief.”

Gilda took a deep breath and began immediately: “I believe in God the Father, who hath made me and all the world.”

Fallon lay his finger across her mouth and turned to Noshi. “And you, little brother? Who hath stolen your voice?”

Noshi jumped in: “I believe in God the Son, who hath redeemed me and all mankind.”