The Spirit Keeper (6 page)

And yet, I, myself, was such a peculiar girl that I found his lack of obvious advantages to be a major part of his charm, as I always was one to be drawn to the lame puppy or the runt hog of the litter. I freely admit I admired Syawa’s confession of shortcomings, not to mention his lack of guile and unwavering good humor in the face of hardship, conflict, and danger—mostly because those traits were so foreign to my experience of men. No man I’d e’er known would admit to being weak or frightened or worried or wrong, for every man I’d e’er known was always locked in a self-imposed struggle to be the biggest, the brightest, the toughest, or the meanest. Hector, whose face was either entirely emotionless or set in a scowl, was much more like every other man I’d e’er known.

But e’en as I was drawn to Syawa’s uniqueness, I was unnerved by it as well. Did I really want to spend my life obliged to a grinning fool, someone who seemed half-witted, a man others might well dismiss as the equivalent of a village idiot?

Which is not to say I thought Syawa stupid. Clearly he was not. The determination and dedication required to trek through miles of hostile territory to find the woman of his dreams was not only flattering and romantic, but the mark of a strong character as well. Any reasonable person might view his “quest” as half-baked and detached from reality, but I was enough of a dreamer myself to understand the nature of his obsession and respect it. He might be mad, as my sister proclaimed, but, for me, madness was far from a disqualifier. Little in life had e’er made sense to me.

Besides, there was one thing about Syawa I found utterly irresistible—his glibness of tongue. At first, of course, I understood naught of what he said, but I was tickled by the fact he ne’er ran out of things to say. He chattered on like a bird at dawn, and tho’ I knew not what he was talking about, I truly enjoyed listening to him. Most evenings, both whilst we were with my family and thereafter, Syawa passed the time by telling some sort of story, which Hector—who was the only one who understood him—attended with great interest. Sometimes Hector was amused by the tales, sometimes saddened, but always he was entertained. I found myself envying the tall, silent man because he clearly derived so much pleasure from listening to his friend’s words.

After the story each night, Hector curled up in his fur and went right to sleep, but Syawa always continued to sit by the fire and talk, e’en after I wrapt myself in my bearskin and lay down to sleep as well. At first I thought he did this to prevent me from attempting a nocturnal escape, for Syawa’s voice had such a hypnotic effect I inevitably fell asleep long before he stopt talking, but he continued the ritual long after he must’ve known I had no intention of slipping away during the night.

Puzzling o’er why Syawa’s stories had such an effect on me, I came to believe ’twas because he reminded me of my father, who was quite a storyteller himself. The rare occasions during my childhood when my family was happy occurred when Father was sufficiently liquored up to be chatty, but not so drunk as to be itching for a fight. Then he would sit before the fire and tell long, lingering, delicious tales of books he’d read or legends he himself had been told as a child. The only time I e’er truly loved my father was when he was telling one of his long stories, and the only time I actually enjoyed being a member of my family was when we were all gathered together on a dark winter’s night, listening to father tell his tales.

So I supposed all this storytelling predisposed me to accept the peculiarities of the strange little Indian who seemed so besotted by me, and thinking about my father reminded me that e’en if I might have found a considerably more appealing companion back amongst my own people, I was just as likely to end up with someone considerably worse. Thus I found myself floating farther and farther from my former life, swept away by the relentless current of Syawa’s cheerful chatter, and I snapt awake each morning to find him lying near me in his own sleeping fur, smiling, as if he, himself, ne’er slept.

It occurred to me the real reason behind the babble was to keep my thoughts from dwelling on the drastic way the course of my life had been diverted, and for that I was grateful. It goes without saying I was in desperate need of ongoing distraction from the tremendous weariness I suffered—those first days on the trail were sheer torture. Up and down we went, ’round and ’round, and on and on and on. Brambles tore at my clothing, rocks and roots tript me, my hand-me-down shoes left my feet blistered, oozing, and raw. I bowed my head each time Hector grumbled about stopping, but Syawa only laughed and said all was well. Time and again he said the three of us were exactly where we should be.

Neither Hector nor I could very well argue with that.

~6~

A
S MY STRENGTH AND
endurance improved, our pace quickened, with one notable exception—water crossings. I loathed getting wet, but the invisible trail we followed forced me to wade through innumerable swamps and streams that left my shoes soggy, squeaky, and chafing my feet. Worse still, I was oft required to slog across much larger bodies of water which soaked my skirts to the skin. Oh, how much more bitterly did the March wind bite with clammy, cold cloth clinging to my legs!

Sometimes it rained, but I recall only one afternoon when a downpour actually delayed us. I enjoyed those hours huddled under the ingenious tent my companions constructed, not only because I was able to rest my throbbing feet, but also because I was able to concentrate more fully on Syawa’s language lesson. Unfortunately, all that spring rain only served to swell the streams, making what was already a challenge for me become almost an impossibility.

The day came when my companions perked up and quickened their pace—I knew not why. As we topt a rise, they both whooped and ran recklessly down the hillside, shedding their packs so they could dive headlong into the water of a sizeable river. I followed them sedately and stood on the riverbank, forlorn, watching as they splashed about. Eventually Syawa came back to coax me in, but either he did not understand or could not believe I was unable to swim a lick. He told Hector to walk out to the middle of the stream to show me the water was no deeper than his chest, but I found this revelation small comfort in the face of what seemed to me to be a raging torrent.

In the end the men had to drag me across the river, each clutching an arm, whilst I kept my eyes tightly shut and whimpered the whole way. For the first time in our acquaintance, Syawa seemed unhappy when we reached the opposite shore and I fell to my knees sobbing, o’ercome by anxiety. His face was grim as he said something to Hector, but the disgusted tone of Hector’s reply was unmistakable.

Still on my knees in the mud, I glanced up as Hector spoke. He was saying something about smell—something about how it was too bad the river had not washed away the smell of my clothing. At that, my tears dried up. I rose shakily and walked back into the river ’til the water was up to my waist. I knelt down and rubbed the water into my clothes, glaring at Hector, who watched in astonishment. I scrubbed myself ’til I felt sure my “smell” had been washed away, then stomped out of the water and walked to a log where I could sit and furiously wring out my skirts.

Syawa grinned at me, delight in his eyes. “You understand his words,” he said.

 • • •

Yes, I was learning the language, but I still despised water, and so on the day we arrived at a high bank beside a very large river, I knew I was in serious trouble. There was no way I was going to be able to walk across this one, e’en with my companions dragging me by the arms. But as I stood staring down at the watery depths in dismay, Syawa and Hector were peering at something on the far shore, which, when at last I followed their gaze, I found to be an Indian village. The more I looked, the larger the village appeared, and, preoccupied as I was with scrutinizing the huts and people, I failed to see several large canoes ’til they were in the river and coming our way. We had been spotted, which was, apparently, what my companions expected.

We descended to the riverbank to meet the occupants of the canoes, who obviously knew Syawa and Hector. This, I assumed, must be our destination, the home village of my companions. The villagers eyed me warily as they invited us into their canoes.

Grateful as I was not to be required to confront the current of this river on my own, I was far from eager to set foot in one of those wobbling, flimsy watercrafts, but before I could begin to fret and without a word of warning, Syawa lifted me up and deposited me unceremoniously in the middle of a canoe. I clung to his arm ’til he gently transferred my death-grip to the side of the vessel. Then he climbed in before me. The rickety craft was pushed into the current, and I clutched both sides with white-knuckled hands, nervous as a cat the whole way.

As miserable as I was, I took note that Hector, leaning back in the neighboring canoe, was as comfortable and relaxed as I had e’er seen him. Syawa, too, held his face up to drink in the sweet, open breeze of the water-cooled air. Sitting behind him, I could see only a part of his smile, but somehow it seemed sad to me, wistful, tinged with longing. I wondered why his homecoming should make him sad—was he sorry his adventures were finisht? Or was he sorry now to be returning with someone like me?

I quickly discovered this village was not Syawa’s home at all, but only a place he and Hector had visited on their journey eastward. I believe my companions intended to stop for no more than a night or two, but we ended up staying for several days because shortly after we arrived, my monthly flow began. Aware of my situation, I excused myself to go to the bushes wherein I might tend nature’s business, but an old woman came after me, jabbering away in her incomprehensible tongue. Tho’ I understood naught of her words, I knew enough of reading gestures by this time to see she was absolutely insisting I follow her to a bark-covered dwelling at the edge of the village, where she literally pushed me through the deerskin-covered doorhole.

Inside the dark hut I found women of various ages lounging ’round a central fire, engaged in casual conversation. When I stumbled in, they all froze and stared at me as I crouched before them, blinking, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The old woman came in and gabbled away, apparently explaining who I was and why I was there. I was so discomfited by the way they all stared at me that I very nigh turned and ran, but then a woman who was perhaps ten years older than I asked me something. Her voice was kind and gentle, but, of course, I could not understand her, and I told her so in English. Another moment of stunned silence passed before the woman gestured for me to come sit beside her.

This hut, I soon learnt, was the women’s lodge, where all ladies go during their monthlies. In a short time, another woman entered, greeted with relief by the others. This woman could speak English, and she told me she grew up in the proximity of an English trading post far to the east. Not long ago, she said, her people had removed to this area, driven from their homeland by encroaching settlers.

My new friend, who was many years older than I, began by explaining that amongst her people, women always separate themselves from men during their monthlies. I was, at first, appalled to find myself thus shut away from my traveling companions, held as a virtual prisoner, but once I resigned myself to my situation, I found the break relaxing and restorative. ’Twas nice not only to have a chance to recover from the rigorous hike, but also to have someone to talk to who could answer at least a few of my questions. O’erwhelmed as I was by ignorance of Indian customs and beliefs, I was in desperate need of advice on how to comport myself whilst living amongst the natives of this land.

My new friend’s name was something like Ta-toe-mi. I heard someone call her To-mi, and when I called her by that name, she did not object.

Tomi told me that everyone was quite excited by my presence inasmuch as they had, as I suspected, met Syawa and Hector before and knew all about their Journey. With Tomi as translator, the women in the hut interrogated me about where I was from, how I met Syawa, and whether or not I was human. They seemed to believe Syawa might have conjured me from sheer nothingness and that I must surely be endowed with supernatural powers.

I was unnerved by my fame amongst these strangers, especially since the only reason for it, as far as I could tell, was Syawa’s power as storyteller. During his previous stay, he had apparently regaled the inhabitants of this place with an elaborate performance depicting his Vision of a Creature of Fire and Ice, explaining that when he found this phantasm of his dreams, she would bring back to his people a great and glorious gift. Now, of course, all the women presst me to tell them more about the gift.

What could I say? For the most part, I understood little of what they were talking about—not because Tomi was a poor translator, but because their eager questions just seemed so stupid. I suppose I had, up to that time, assumed everyone understood Syawa’s story about a Vision was nothing more than a tale he told to justify traipsing all over creation as he looked for a wife. I couldn’t believe anyone had taken him seriously. After all, I knew I was not some sort of mystical creature, I believed Syawa was little more than a social misfit, and I assumed the “gift” they were so curious about was clearly a fiction. When I said as much to Tomi and she translated my words, the women in the hut seemed disappointed, but not terribly surprised. Apparently mystical creatures are rarely willing to share their secrets.

Determined not to pretend to be something I was not, I said to Tomi, “But surely you must understand that when Syawa was here before, he was just telling a story. It was a hope he had, a cherished dream perhaps, and, glib as he is, I’m sure he made it a rousing tale, but, still—’twas not real. ’Twas all just words.”

Tomi’s forehead furrowed as she listened to me. Then she nodded. “Yes, his words are just,” she said. “And we, too, cherish his dream as a message of hope. It is truly rousing to see that you are real now, at last.”