The Spirit Keeper (10 page)

I tried to go back to sleep, but could not. As thrilling as it had been the night before to be intimately connected with such a celebrated man, now that connection seemed like a huge mistake. Apparently there was a price to be paid for fame and glory, and the bill was going to fall due for me in three days.

~10~

A
S SOON AS MY
companions and I arose, we were approacht by a Frenchman inviting us to the trading post. Syawa immediately accepted, as if the invitation, like the offer of food, could not be refused. Tho’ my people have always viewed the French as interlopers, I soon learnt most of the Frenchmen at this post were native-born, sons of Indian mothers. Upon our arrival, two young half-breeds took Syawa and Hector to one side to show them weapons, whilst our original guide led me to a platform covered with fabrics, ribbons, and beads.

As the trader strove to entice me with colorful cloths and sparkling trinkets, I remained silent and still. Having ne’er worn nothing that wasn’t handed down thru multiple family members, I had no taste for finery. Traders actually made me uneasy, and tho’ the young Frenchman urged me to touch this or feel that, I responded only with vague smiles. Except for my few personal items, which had little value to anyone but me, I possessed nothing to trade with, and, knowing I must carry all I owned, I had no desire to acquire nothing new anyway.

I glanced at my companions to see if they were going to trade. Syawa was pleasant, as always, but aloof. His smile was scarce visible; his dark eyes were veiled. Hector was openly hostile, but then again he seemed always eager to shove his knife into something or someone.

My trader worked hard to win me o’er, speaking in French, English, Dutch, and several Indian tongues, but when he evoked no response, he turned in frustration to a mat hanging from the rafters, which formed a partial wall behind him. That was when I discovered two additional Frenchmen sitting in the shadows, their narrowed eyes burning into me. I stared at them and saw that one was much older, rougher, and bolder—I supposed he was in charge of the place. The other was a black-robed priest.

As soon as I saw the hidden men, I looked again to my companions, who were being shown how to powder a musket and thus were thoroughly distracted. When I returned my eyes to the traders, the older one had leant close enough that I could see the grizzle on his face. He smiled, looking me o’er in an intimate way, the way I’m sure he looked o’er most women, horses, and dogs. “How does a pretty young Englishwoman come to be in the company of strange savages?” he asked in near-perfect English.

“Truth be told, I am an Irishwoman,” I said lightly.

The hearty laughter of all three men caused Syawa and Hector to look my way. Alarmed to see three hairy foreigners looming o’er me, they would’ve come to my rescue, but just then the trader with the gun fired the weapon, startling my companions so much that they began shouting angrily. The shooter tried to soothe the ruffled feathers by gesturing that there was no danger, for he’d not loaded a lead ball, but when these potential customers still seemed inclined to leave, the other trader recaptured their interest by pulling out a display of shiny swords.

In the meantime, the older Frenchman had arisen and stept up to the counter. “My apologies, mistress,” he said silkily. “I did not mean to insult you by associating you with the lying, thieving, lawless swine who are the English.”

If he was hoping to win me over by insulting our common enemy, I’m afraid I disappointed him. As stated, I’ve ne’er cared for politics, and I care e’en less for smooth-talking sales pitches from unscrupulous traders.

When I failed to respond, the priest spoke up from the shadows, his accent thick. “But you not say how you come to be here, my child. If you are captive by these men, we shall, of course, do what we must to secure your release.”

If I have no use for politics, I have an active antipathy towards religion. Religious wars are a way of life in Ireland, and my father’s family had, for generations, derived great financial gain by squeezing out the Catholics, who make up the bulk of the population. All I know of priests is what my father always said—they’re the devil’s doers on earth, determined to steal the souls, not to mention the worldly goods, of all folk simple-minded enough to listen to them. I vividly recall the glee with which Father repeatedly described the burning of a priest he’d witnessed as a child.

I should add that my grandmother was an ardent Catholic all her days. I caught her once on her knees with a rosary, and, crying, she made me swear not to tell no one, lest my father throw her from his house. “Keep this wee secret, Katie,” she begged, “and I’ll say an Ave fer ye ev’ry day I live.” I knew not what an “Ave” was, but I loved my gran and was happy to share a secret with her. It made me feel special, right up to the day she died, when I discovered she’d made similar pacts with every member of our family. It turned out everyone knew she was Catholic—e’en Father.

My point is I had reason to be wary of priests, and I smiled coldly at the one before me. “No, sir, I did not say how I came to be here, nor do I see why I should. Surely my affairs are my own.”

The Frenchmen looked at one another, puzzled. The older one, handsome in his grizzled way, once again tried the smile that obviously worked with most women. “I hope we’ve not offended you, mistress, but we’ve ne’er seen a white woman this far from civilization, and we assumed, quite naturally, you are being held against your will. If we may be of any assistance . . .”

“I am not a captive,” I said firmly. “Nor do I require any assistance. I thank you for your concern but would ask that you not trouble yourselves on my account.”

“Ah! A runaway!” said the young trader who had failed to sell me anything. His English was poor, but his meaning was clear. He grinned as he added, “Your father, he give fortune to find you, eh?” The older Frenchman shot the speaker a warning look, which caused the younger man to turn his attention to refolding fabrics.

“My father is dead,” I said simply. “The few family members remaining to me know where I am and, I assure you, would give nothing to have me back. Therefore I must ask you gentlemen, once again, not to concern yourselves with my affairs. Thank you for showing me your wares.”

I rejoined my companions, hoping they were ready to return to the Indian village, but they were at this point keenly examining a large array of knives. When I asked Syawa if he meant to trade for something, he stept back and gestured emphatically that he had nothing to trade.

I was surprised. What about all those furs and hides we had been cleaning, collecting, and carrying? Why did we keep them, if not to use in trade? I thought perhaps Syawa was positioning himself to bargain, but I had no way to ask because our language of gestures offered no opportunity to speak privately. Besides, I wasn’t e’en sure he fully understood the situation. He and Hector might not
want
to trade, but these Frenchmen were experts at getting what
they
wanted, and they would keep after my companions as long as they had anything the Frenchmen considered valuable—be it animal hides, information, or, for that matter, me.

Sure enough, before we could leave, the head Frenchman insisted we join them for a meal, and inasmuch as Syawa was incapable of refusing an invitation, we ate with them. I must say the food was the best I’d had since leaving home, no doubt because it was the sort I was used to. The French had taught their Indian women the Old World way of cooking, and I thoroughly enjoyed the bread and cheese and cake and pie. Syawa and Hector were less enthusiastic, but, as usual, they ate everything offered to them as if their lives depended on it.

Whilst we were eating I watched a number of local Indians come and go from the trading post. The younger, mix-blooded Frenchmen did most of the haggling, but I noticed they always consulted with the older man who was hosting our meal, e’en if the consultation consisted of nothing more than an inquiring look and a confirming nod.

Our host, whose name was something like LeFevre, got a lot more information from my companions than he had managed to get from me. Clearly LeFevre had either seen or heard about our performance the night before, and, using the gesture language, he plied Syawa and Hector for details, especially about where, exactly, I was from, what Indian tribes were involved in the raid, how many people were involved on both sides, and what sort of resistance my family and the neighboring community put up. My companions answered all of LeFevre’s questions without reservation.

Knowing how traders use information as a tool in negotiations, I wisht I could urge Syawa to be less forthcoming, but because I did not want to call further attention to myself, I said nothing throughout this interrogation and did not, in fact, let the Frenchmen know I spake their language. As the men gestured on and on, silently discussing the situation on the Colonial border, I watched their discussion but let my ears focus in on what was happening at the trade tables. When the young traders negotiated with the natives, they spoke the local language, which I did not understand, but when they conferred with each other, they spoke French, which I understand well. In this way I learnt the traders were systematically cheating the Indians.

When, at last, my companions were ready to depart, I was relieved. I said naught about what I’d heard, mostly because I did not know what to say. Should I say merchants are deceptive? Who does not know that? In my lifetime, my father’s livelihood came from clever deal-making and ruthless profit-taking, and the fact that Father was so bad at those enterprises helped make my early life abysmal. Considering how much information Syawa had just given the French for free, I feared he, like my father, would rarely come out on top in any trade, which made it likely I would continue to live in poverty all my days.

By the time we got back to the Indian village I was exhausted, and, still full of good French food, I curled up in my bearskin and went immediately to sleep.

 • • •

Awakened the next morning by a commotion outside, I hurried out to join my companions, who were being gabbled at by a distraught young man and an older woman. Finally the young man realized his error and repeated his frantic pleas in the form of fumbling gestures. Apparently his wife was in some sort of distress, and he and his mother prayed the celebrated Seer from a Distant Land might perform the magic their own healers had been unable to conjure.

Syawa stood still for a moment, an odd smile on his face. He gave Hector the slightest shrug. Hector lifted his chin in acknowledgment and walked away as Syawa turned his eyes to me. “This is what I saw in my Vision,” he said in both words and gestures. “Now it begins.”

My stomach churned. I was not ready for this—I was still half-asleep! Besides, I had no special powers, no unique knowledge, no ability to help anyone do anything. The truth was, as Syawa well knew, I could scarce assist in meal preparation and couldn’t e’en chop wood without bungling it. Yet here he was smiling at me, and here were all these strangers staring at me with hope in their eyes. I was absolutely petrified. How could I possibly make Syawa’s Vision come true?

I numbly turned to follow Syawa, who was following the young man, my thoughts racing far ahead of them both. If we all somehow survived the shame of my inevitable failure, would Syawa understand at last what a mistake he’d made? When he realized there was nothing at all special about me, would he send me home or have Hector dispatch me on the spot? I walked with head down, dreading the dismal end of my short, unhappy life.

We came to a hut from which a few of the roof mats had been removed. Syawa and I entered to find a young woman clearly suffering the pangs of childbirth. She was wholly naked, sitting on a large hide, her belly huge and tight, her face pale and dotted with perspiration. Her eyes rolled in terror that instantly transformed into relief the moment she saw who we were. When Syawa smiled that smile of his and knelt beside her, I watched the tension in her taut muscles simply melt away.

The woman’s husband remained outside, but his mother introduced us to the women attending the laboring girl. One explained how the young mother’s pains began shortly after we arrived in the village, and how she had suffered e’er since with little to show for her efforts. With the mother growing weak, the women hoped the famous Holyman could coax the baby out into this world.

Syawa crooned a song the young woman could not possibly understand as he brushed the damp hair off her face. He gently laid her down before pulling some items out of a pouch he’d brought with him. As he began performing an incantation o’er her, I turned my attention to the young mother and the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. Everything was eerily familiar. I suddenly realized I’d been here before—dozens and dozens of times. I knelt beside the laboring woman, becoming strangely calm, confident, and sure. I didn’t know much about campsite cooking, but I knew a thing or two about having babies.

From the day I, myself, was born, I had been exposed to childbirth on a routine basis. My mother was confined about once a year, and my sisters, sisters-in-law, neighbors, and acquaintances too numerous to mention gave me infinite opportunities to learn all the problems and solutions of difficult labors. In my seventeen years, rare was the month when I was not bathed in the blood of birth—if not from a human, then from one of our many animals. I knew all about the birth process. I knew how it worked and why it sometimes didn’t. If the subject of Syawa’s latest Vision was childbirth, I just might be able to make a contribution.

Whilst Syawa sang and rubbed herbs on the young woman’s temples, I slowly and deliberately felt her belly. I expected her to tighten up when I touched her, but I was surprised to feel her actually relax beneath my hands. Then it occurred to me—if I were being handled by someone I sincerely believed to be the embodiment of a Holyman’s Vision, I suppose I, too, would relax.

My examination revealed the baby’s backside was pressed down hard upon the top of the birth canal. On the other hand, the woman’s pains were still strong and productive, and when I laid my ear against her belly, a strong rolling movement assured me the little one still lived. There was, indeed, reason to hope.