Lake in the Clouds (82 page)

“There is no war party within five hundred miles of here, Hannah Bonner, and you know it!”

“Of course there is not. But
they
won’t believe that until their men are home safe. To shout at them because they are frightened and distracted is foolish and, worse, it will only panic them more.”

Richard stopped in his tracks and turned on her. “So we let fevered children fend for themselves while their mothers are pointing muskets at shadows? I have no patience with such foolishness.”

“Then let me deal with the mothers,” Hannah said, and she saw how he twitched at her tone. “Because you are doing more harm than good.”

“Next you’ll send me off into the bush to join the search party,” Richard blustered, but with far less energy.

“That is an excellent idea,” Hannah said. “Why don’t you do just that?”

“Maybe I will,” Richard shot back. “But the last call we’ve got to make is at the mill, and if anybody’s going to take a shot at you it’s bound to be one of the Kuicks. And right at this moment I’m tempted to stand aside and watch it happen.”

Given all the stories that Hannah had heard about the widow Kuick’s household, she stepped into the kitchen expecting to find servants and slaves working frantically, light burning in every room, halls seething with shouts and wailed outrage. Instead the house seemed deserted, oddly cool for a summer evening, empty enough that she could hear Becca’s mild voice echoing in the halls. The doctor was asking her about her mistress, and Becca was doing her best to answer.

There was no sign of Cookie. Anna McGarrity had put out the word that the new maid had left at first light without giving notice. A stack of dirty dishes on the table, the hearth smoldering down to its last cinder, a cat rubbed up against Hannah’s skirt and trilled a question.

“I don’t know where they’ve all gone,” she told him, a tomcat the size of a fat raccoon, the color of dirty linen. “Maybe they’re all down at the slave quarters. Shall we go have a look?”

The truth was, she was eager to be out of the house and the
tom seemed to have no objection. He trotted alongside her like a dog, his tail pointing straight up to the sky.

The sound of the stream that fed the mill grew louder and then Hannah came around a corner and it stood before her, as still and dark as the house. The cat ran ahead around the corner and it was her turn to follow, more reluctantly now.

The building that served as both warehouse and slave quarters stood on a small clearing between the millworks and the overseer’s house, low and squat and still alive with light. Once on the porch Hannah hesitated, hearing voices raised in conversation:
more of those greens
and
would you give me my
and
how long you think the doctor going to
and
White Tom where you been boy.
The air was heavy with good smells: trout frying, corn-bread, hot milk.

Suddenly Hannah couldn’t remember why she had thought to come here, unless it was simply to get away from the cold kitchen at the mill house. She thought of going back again, of knocking on doors until she found Richard or Becca or Jemima. She thought of going home, just walking away into the forest and making her way alone, as she had promised Elizabeth she would not.

The door opened and Cookie stood there, a cautious expression giving way to a smile.

“Miss Bonner,” she said, stepping backward and opening the door wider. “Now ain’t it good to see you. Come on in and set down to supper with us. We got plenty.”

“No sore throats here,” Levi said when Hannah had finished telling them about the events of the day. The cheerful mood around the table had sombered, but not gone completely.

Ezekiel winked at Hannah. “No strawberry tongue neither, but Moses here was complaining yesterday about a headache.”

“Because Malachi stepped on his head getting out of bed,” said Shadrach, a very large man with an exceedingly soft voice.

The widow’s seven slaves were sitting around a rough plank set atop barrels that served as a table, and each of them looked at Hannah with open curiosity and goodwill. If they were concerned about the scarlet fever they were hiding it well.

“It would be best if you stayed out of the village then,” Hannah said. “What we’re dealing with here is a catching sickness.
I’ll leave some sore throat tea just in case, and some willow bark, too, for fever.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Cookie. “But you know that generally Curiosity or Daisy come up here to see to us when we need doctoring.”

“Daisy’s likely to be very busy for the next few days with the sickness in the village,” Hannah said. “And Curiosity’s not back yet. If you think you’re coming down with the canker, you send for me.” As soon as she said it, Hannah realized that she had offered them help that they could not accept; that the widow would not let them accept.

“That’s Mr. Kuick’s horse I hear.” Cookie turned toward the window. Her tone was mild but her expression gave away more. “He ain’t stopping at the house.”

“He’s headed this way, and in a hurry,” added Levi.

All the men got up from the table together and went to the windows.

“Look like the whole search party is back,” somebody murmured. “Lot of commotion down in the village.”

“Is there anybody with Mr. Kuick?” Hannah must ask the question that no one else seemed willing to voice.

Cookie turned. “He’s alone,” she said, not even trying to hide her relief. “And empty-handed.”

Isaiah Kuick’s horse stood in front of the mill, dripping lather, its head hung low. For the first time Hannah saw something of concern on Cookie’s face, but whether it was for the animal or for the man who had left it here in such condition she could not say.

“Mr. Isaiah?” Cookie called from the open door. “Mr. Isaiah? Come on out here, will you please?”

The doorstep was wet, and Hannah crouched down to convince herself that it was water and not blood that Isaiah Kuick was trailing behind him.

The building was full of echoing sounds: the rush of the stream on its way down the mountain to the Sacandaga, the rhythmic rattle of the water flume against its braces, the creak and moan of timber walls and wooden gears, the whistle of the wind in the air vents.

“Mr. Isaiah? We don’t got no light with us, so you come on
out here now. You say something, Miss Bonner. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Hannah said, “Mr. Kuick, this is Hannah Bonner. Are you injured?”

The pale oval of his face came toward them out of the dark, swaying as if he were full drunk.

“I’ll look again,” he answered in a hoarse voice. “One more time.” And he turned and disappeared back into the shadows.

“Are you looking for the overseer?” Hannah called after him. “There’s been no sign of Mr. Dye here today, isn’t that right, Cookie?”

The older woman had crossed her arms across her waist. She nodded. “No sign of him at all.”

Hannah called, “You are unwell, Mr. Kuick, won’t you come and let Dr. Todd see to your needs? He’s at the house with your mother.”

The only reply was a harsh laugh, so close that Hannah jumped.

He had come out of the building on the other side and circled around to stand behind them. His cloak was sodden, and his hair trailed wet over unshaved cheeks. In the evening light his face seemed to glow, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He stood there swaying slightly, all his attention on Cookie.

Very suddenly he stepped forward and slung his arms around her to bury his face in the curve of her shoulder. His whole body heaved and shuddered. “He’s gone, Cookie,” he whispered. “He’s gone for good.”

Cookie patted his back and rocked. “It’s all right, Mr. Isaiah,” she said softly. “It’s all going to be all right now. We got to get you some dry clothes and something hot to drink. You chilled right through to the bone.”

She looked at Hannah over Isaiah Kuick’s trembling shoulders, her eyes as cool and cold as the water that dripped from his hair onto her face.

She said, “They’ll find Mr. Dye and he’ll come home, wait and see, just as good as ever. You just wait and see.”

Well past midnight, Hannah found her way into the kitchen at the mill house and stood disoriented and disheartened and unable to remember what she needed.

Becca Kaes sat up suddenly from a pallet by the banked hearth, and Hannah let out a small cry of shock and surprise, stepping back.

“Becca,” she hiccuped, pressing a hand to her throat. “You put a fright into me.”

She had gone to school with Becca Kaes, a good-hearted girl with her mother’s kindly ways and her father’s laugh. On her face now there was nothing but worry and fearfulness.

“Hannah,” she said, coming forward in a tangle of blanket. “Is it true about Eulalia Wilde?”

How strange, to have forgotten Eulalia Wilde in such a short time. Hannah blinked and blinked again, but the gritty feeling behind her eyelids stayed.

She nodded. “Yes. She had a bad infection that passed into her blood.”

Becca drew in a breath and let it out in a sigh. “Lord rest her. She was my good friend. And Nicholas?”

“He has the canker rash,” Hannah said. “But he’s strong, and I think he’ll survive.”

Becca sat down heavily on a stool by the trestle table. After a moment she seemed to collect herself and she smoothed her hair away from her face.

“I’m afraid to ask about my sister and her boys.”

Hannah sat down next to her. “Molly’s in a bad way. The boys are strong and I think they’ll all pull through.”

“I would go to her if the widow would—” Becca began and Hannah cut her off with a shake of the head.

“Of course you would. But your mother is with her.”

Becca pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and rubbed her nose with it.

“I suppose I should go look in on the widow,” she said in the same voice she might have proposed cleaning out the stable.

“The doctor said that she should sleep until morning,” Hannah said. “I don’t think you need bother.”

At that Becca looked directly relieved. “Would you like some tea, or something to eat? It is such a long time since you and I have talked. The widow …” Her voice trailed away. “You know how the widow is.”

“Yes,” said Hannah. “I know about the widow. Thank you for the offer of tea but what I really want is to go home. Do
you think I could ask one of the men from the mill to walk with me up the mountain?”

Becca jumped up so suddenly that the dirty dishes on the table rattled. “Oh my, I clear forgot to tell you. There’s somebody waiting for you, it must be hours now. An Indian. Not the Indian who—” She paused. Her tone was apologetic and slightly irritated, as if she resented even having to think about what had happened in the parlor the night before. “A friend of your family’s, and I forgot to tell you,” she finished.

A new wakefulness sparked in Hannah and she realized that she had been hoping for exactly this news. “I’ll say good night then.”

“Wait!” Becca stepped forward. “What about Mr. Kuick?”

“Cookie is with him,” Hannah said.

“Is it the canker rash? Is he very ill?”

Hannah said, “It is the canker rash and a lung fever both. He is very ill indeed.”

Hannah was too tired to be startled, and she barely glanced at Strikes-the-Sky when he stepped out of the shadows behind the stable and fell into step beside her. She was glad of the dark, and glad of the fact that there was just enough light from the moon to make a lantern unnecessary. She was glad of Strikes-the-Sky, too, for giving her the things she needed most: comfort and companionship and protection without explanations or questions.

As they walked she felt the day begin to peel away from her, layer by layer. Fevered children, frightened mothers. Isaac Cameron sputtering wild-eyed about Indian ambushes while Hannah cut the festering flesh from a burn on his hand gone bad. The slender shell that had once been Eulalia Wilde. Bump’s kind face and the doctor’s furious one, a bloody scalpel in his hand. That death should dare so much. Nicholas Wilde, torn in two by grief. Daisy Hench squeezing out a cool rag to ease the fever that burned in three of her four children, her eyes fixed on the healthy one, waiting. All of them, waiting.

Sometimes Strikes-the-Sky walked beside her and sometimes, when the path was narrow, before her. She watched him, tall and strong and everything that she was taught to admire in a man. His skin a deep copper shade, deeper and truer than her own.

As if she had called his name he looked at her over his shoulder, the egret feathers laced into his scalp lock lifting and turning in the breeze.

She asked the question that she feared most. “Is there sickness at Lake in the Clouds?”

“No,” he said.

He might have said
not yet,
but he had not. Somehow he knew that those words would displease her. Satisfaction and irritation fought for the upper hand: that he would know her so well after such a short time. That he should know her so well.

She said, “You should go away from here while you are still healthy. Back to your people.”

As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted them, but then he smiled at her and anger rose up hot and hard and filled her throat.

“Tomorrow you should go,” she said. “Tonight.”

She pushed ahead, but no matter how fast she walked he was behind her. By the time they came to the clearing at Lake in the Clouds they were trotting, both of them. At the sound of the waterfall Hannah broke into a run, dropped her basket, kicked off the summer moccasins she wore under her O’seronni dress, and without thought or pause she dove into the water.

Her mother’s people dipped newborns in the waters of the great river so they would never forget who they were and who they would always be. She felt it in the pit of her stomach, the basin of her skull, in the long curve of her spine, in the very muscles of her heart: cold so intense that the sorrow and anger that had begun to etch itself in untouchable places must give way. And in their place a new understanding.

When she was born her father had brought her here and dipped her in the Lake in the Clouds; this was where she belonged.

When she climbed out of the lake, water and weariness streaming off her, Strikes-the-Sky was sitting there, where they had sat together for so many nights now. He had not kissed her or tried to kiss her or even spoken of kissing, and now Hannah was glad of that; it made everything easier.