Shadowbrook (25 page)

“What is it, Geechkah? What have you found for me?”

“That plant I told you about, the one that only makes flowers in this moon. I think I have found it.”

“Alpine campion,” Faucon murmured. His heart beat faster with excitement. In Europe horticulturalists believed that
Lychnis alpinus
grew only in the Alps of Switzerland, but the plant Geechkah described could be nothing else. The priest couldn’t be certain until he saw it in bloom. Then he must confirm the identification, and sketch the flower. And, of course, make provision to gather seed. If this were true it would be—

“Wait.” Geechkah abruptly stopped walking. They were at the top of a ridge at the far edge of the village. The old man held up a hand for silence, then dropped to his belly in the tall grass and indicated that the priest should do the same. He pointed to the valley below. “Look there.” His voice was a faint murmur that carefully avoided any echo from the gorge. “Use your seeing-big glass. This too is a sight not often seen.”

A line of Indians on horseback was riding through the valley. Even at this distance and with the naked eye it was apparent that they were alert and ready for any danger that might come from the surrounding hills. The Jesuit fumbled at his waist for his glass, extended it to its full length, and squinted through one eye at the men below. There were nine altogether. Five were in the traditional black and red breechclouts of the Huron, the other four wore thin-legged buckskin trousers. All were heavily painted in red and black, and each of the braves had shaved off all his hair except for a single tuft that extended from forehead to the nape of the neck. “Scalp locks,” the priest said softly.

“Yes.”

Faucon snapped the glass closed. “They are a war party.”

Geechkah nodded. So this was the real reason the old man had sent for him. Somehow he’d known that the war party, whoever they were, would be passing this way at this time. And he’d brought Philippe up to the ridge so he’d be sure to see them.

Geechkah scurried back from the edge. Philippe followed, sliding backward on his belly so he never presented a black outline on the horizon for any scalp-locked brave who happened to look up. “They’re Huron,” he whispered urgently. “Why would the Huron make war on Québec when—”

“Those men you saw, they are Lantak and his renegades. They belong to no hearth in any Longhouse.” It was a solemn denial of kinship. To be without a connection to the Longhouse was to be forever outcast. “And they do not go to Québec.”

“Where then? How do you know all this?”

“Among us when an arm is cut off from the body, whether by accident or by an enemy, it is buried near the hearth of the brave to whom it belonged, so that the brave or his relatives can listen to the earth above it and always know what the arm is doing. Once my hearth was Lantak’s. I listen to the earth around him and I know what he is doing. As to where he is going … It is a very long way away, a distance of many sunrises. I do not know the place, but I know that the brown robe paid hundreds of livres to send Lantak on this long warpath.”

Some hours later, in the oak-lined reception chamber of his private apartment in the Provincial House of Québec, the Provincial Superior of the Society of Jesus in New France listened in silence to this tale. When at last he spoke there was sorrow in his tone, a clear indication that the younger man had disappointed him. “It is difficult—no, impossible—to believe that Père Antoine would pay Indians to commit murder. Any Indians, much less the renegade Lantak and his followers.” Louis Roget rose from behind his writing table and stood looking at the distraught priest whose immortal soul had been given into his care. “You speak slander, my son. It is a grave sin.”

“As Almighty God is my judge, I wish no ill to any man, least of all the Franciscan. He is, after all, a priest of God.”

“Exactly,” Roget agreed. The younger man towered over him, but in every other way there was no doubt about who carried the burden of authority. Faucon was sweating, mopping his brow repeatedly despite the fact that the dim, high-ceilinged room was relatively cool for an August evening. The Provincial was calm, untroubled by the summer heat, and the longer he spoke the more icy his words became. “And you took the word of a savage for this calumny, Philippe. Do you not think—”

“With respect, Monsieur le Provincial, Geechkah is a wise old man. And a peaceful one. He has no reason to stir up trouble unless—”

“Unless the devil is struggling with you for his soul, Philippe. Have you made any progress toward converting your friend Geechkah?”

“Not yet, Monsieur le Provincial, but—”

“But he speaks to you of those little leaves and twigs that so fascinate you, eh? And the doings of renegade Huron braves. Does it not strike you as strange, Philippe, that a Huron who remains a pagan would take you into his confidence?”

“I think he was hoping to prevent unnecessary bloodshed, Monsieur le Provincial.”

Roget sat down again, leaning back and folding his hands over his long black soutane. “Bloodshed. Yes, there is plenty of that when Lantak is involved. A few years ago I saw what was left of a pair of his victims. One, an old man, had been staked to the earth and a hundred or more shallow cuts administered to his body.
Then rats were loosed upon him; they ate him alive. I was told it took some hours. You look faint, my dear Philippe. Perhaps you should sit down. The other was a young woman. Whatever Lantak and his braves did to her while she was alive cannot have been worse than her death. They impaled her on a stake, through the anus, I believe, and carried her with them as a kind of standard for as many days as it took her to die. There are numerous such tales, each more gruesome than the one before. Père Antoine has not been long in Québec, but he is bound to have heard about Lantak. Do you really think he would make common cause with such a heathen devil?”

Faucon mopped his brow again, and fought to swallow his vomit. “I do not know, Monsieur le Provincial. Only that I saw them. With scalp locks and war paint, so—”

“So they meant no good for someone. I do not doubt that, my son. It is Lantak’s way. But to accuse a priest of Holy Church of being complicit in such acts … Perhaps you would like to go to the chapel now and ask Our Blessed Lord for right thinking in the matter of your superiors and your brother priests. It will not be necessary to come to the refectory for the evening collation, or to go to your bed tonight.”

Louis Roget waited until the young man had gone, then went to one of the ornately carved oaken panels in the south wall of the room and touched a particular leaf. The panel swung open to reveal a view of the Lower Town. It was heavy dusk, soon to be dark, but the Jesuit readily picked out the roof of the monastery where Mère Marie Rose and her Poor Clares lived their lives of cloistered penance, and that of the nearby hovel he had arranged to be home to the Delegate of the Minister General of the Order of Friars Minor. “So,
mon Père,
the mad dog you have so carefully cultivated now attacks at your bidding. And you have sent him a long distance to the south,” Roget whispered aloud. “Across the border into the English colonies, I’m quite certain. Nothing else would be worth hundreds of livres.”

If only the Blessed Virgin would enlighten him as to the object of the attack, and its purpose. Then he would be in a position to use his knowledge for the good of the Society, which was the same thing as saying the good of Holy Mother Church. Perhaps he would join the feckless Monsieur Faucon in a night of prayer and penance. After he had read the prayers of Compline, the Jesuit who ruled in New France decided. And after he had shared in the evening collation.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 5, 1754
ALBANY, NEW YORK PROVINCE

Quent rode into Albany alone. He had an excellent reason for the journey, to secure a long gun to replace the one he’d given Cormac—which also gave him a
fine excuse to visit the Lydius household. John Lydius was the best source of munitions in the province and had been for dozens of years. Selling arms to whoever could pay for them remained the major source of the Lydius fortune.

The house on North Pearl Street looked as it always had, sturdy and impressive. It stood out among the humbler dwellings behind the town wall. John was at home. Genevieve as well, and a number of the Lydius children and grandchildren. No sign of any Miami.

The Lydius family greeted him warmly. John said he was pretty sure he could put his hands on a long gun, seeing as how it was for Uko Nyakwai, a legendary shot as well as the son of one of Lydius’s oldest friends. “How’s your father these days, Quent?”

“Not well. My mother thinks he won’t be long with us, and I fear she is correct.”

Lydius had lost an eye in some long-ago battle. He wore a black patch over the empty socket and had a way of cocking his head when he looked at you, bringing you into his limited focus. “Sorry to hear that. I’m told John’s in charge of Shadowbrook now.”

“That’s right.”

“I always thought …” Lydius shrugged. “Ah well, no point in wasting time on foolishness, is there?”

“None. About that gun …”

“Yes, of course. Take me about a day to get my hands on something that will suit your needs. Shall we say tomorrow afternoon? About this hour?”

“Suits me.” Quent started to leave, but Genevieve stopped him before he reached the door.

“I heard John say your business will bring you back tomorrow. You’ll have to stay in town the night in that case. Rest with us, Quent. There’s always a bed free for you, you know that.”

“I was figuring on old man Groesbeck’s place. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“You’re not putting us out. And the sheets here smell a great deal sweeter than those provided by Peter Groesbeck, I warrant.”

“So do I,” Quent agreed with a smile. “Thank you. I’ll be glad of your hospitality.”

And so he was, but though he prowled the property thoroughly during the night—something he’d have returned to do even if he’d slept at Groesbeck’s Sign of the Nag’s Head—he found nothing of the sweat lodge, nor any indication of the strange happenings Corm had described. He tried once more after breakfast when he managed to get Genevieve on her own in the kitchen. She was giving instructions to one of the household slaves, and he waited his opportunity, then said, “I hear you had an important guest a while back. Chief Memetosia of the Miami.”

“Yes. He stayed for a time after the Conference, in June. You heard about that,
I suppose. All those important people arguing and coming up with their probably useless Plan of Union.”

“Cormac mentioned it.” He searched her face for any reaction to Corm’s name, but there was none. “Memetosia was ill after the conference, wasn’t he? Practically on his deathbed.”

“So it seemed when he came here. But he’s a tough old bird. He rallied and—Oh no, Jess! Not like that. I told you, Master Lydius likes his pie made with just a little salt, not a whole handful.” Then, turning to her guest: “You must excuse me, Quent. I bought this one not long ago when our old cook died, and she has no idea how we like things done. If you don’t mind …”

He had no choice but to leave. The visit to the kitchen wasn’t, however, an entirely wasted exercise. There was a bench by the rear door heaped with baskets of various shapes and sizes, and he spotted one with a few kernels of the parched white corn that was a specialty of the Miami.

In the afternoon, as promised, John Lydius produced the long gun. It appeared to be a fine weapon. The stock was made of curly maple the color of dark honey, and when he stood it next to himself the gun was almost as tall. Quent inserted a finger into the barrel. The grooving felt as it should, defined and regular. He swung the rifle around—the balance of the thing was a wonder—and squinted down the brass sight. A candlestick on the mantel came into clear focus. “Seems right.” He kept his tone neutral, careful not to betray his pleasure in the weapon. “Where was it made?”

“Right here in the colonies.”

He’d thought as much. Because of the use of maple. Oak was the wood of choice for the stock of a gun made in England, where the instructions for the rifling of the weapons were kept locked in the Tower of London along with other treasures of state. “Pennsylvania,” he guessed. It was widely held that the best gunsmiths in the colonies were from Pennsylvania.

“New Hampshire,” Lydius said. “By a reclusive genius who turns out maybe one such gun a year.”

“How much you asking for it?”

The eye not covered with the black patch studied him without blinking. “Forty golden guineas, and cheap at the price.”

It was a fortune. A man could set up a homestead with little more. “I’ll need to test it.”

“Of course.” Lydius was seated at a writing table in the private chamber where he conducted business. He swung around and reached a powder horn and a box of shot from the chest behind him. “Here you go.”

“Thanks. To be safe I’ll take it off the property. Back in an hour or two with my answer.”

“Agreed,” Lydius said with a smile. “You’ll return happy. I’m sure of it.”

Quent was sure of it as well. Hellfire, he was happy already. He slung the gun over his shoulder and made his way to the end of North Pearl Street, to the broad hill road that had the old Dutch church at the bottom end and the newer English church at the top. Beyond that was the fort and finally the crest of the hill. On the other side was woodland.

He spent less than an hour testing the long gun. When he headed back to the town the barrel was warm with many firings, and the powder horn nearly empty. Lydius was right, it was a superb weapon. Quent didn’t return by way of the fort but stayed outside the town until he was level with Market Street, then entered through a narrow gate and approached the Lydius property from the rear. He spotted the flat-topped rock and the half-felled tree with the single tuft of greenery where Corm had hidden Memetosia’s medicine bag, and in the daylight he was able to make out two charred places in the earth where the fires had been, just as Corm described them. There was no sign of the sweat lodge, much less a Midewiwin priest or a dead Huron brave.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 6, 1754
SHADOWBROOK