JANUARY 1671, HADLEY, NEW ENGLAND

Ned, snowed in at the ferry cabin, not knowing what he thought, not knowing what he felt, not knowing the right thing to do, went from one bitter conclusion to another. He was trapped indoors by a relentless blizzard that made it dangerous even to dig out a path to feed the beasts, who were warm behind a wall of snow. Getting into town to see his old commanders or his minister was impossible. He was in a rage of indecision which seemed to be echoed outside his cabin by the wild storm of the weather.

He was bitter and isolated but not lonely. He did not miss the company of the townspeople, he felt that he did not care if he never heard another of the hateful words they said. He did not want to see Mrs. Rose with the hot spots of anger on her cheeks and the strain in her face. He did not want to see Quiet Squirrel or hear her steady counsel either. He could not think of her without wondering if the snowsnake path had brought her a message to fall on the people of Hadley the moment that the Massasoit received his summons to go to Plymouth and answer for his actions. The people at Hadley might think that they could order the Massasoit to attend in secret, and that none of the scattered tribes would even know, but Ned knew that he would never obey men he did not regard as his equals, let alone his superiors, and he had friends and allies all around them.

The hope that other tribes would not know was folly. Ned knew that all the neighboring tribes would know at once. They had been communicating all winter, they had probably agreed a signal. The moment the Massasoit got an insulting summons, the English would find themselves isolated and outnumbered even in the biggest towns. A little place like Hadley could be obliterated in one night.

There was only one person that Ned wanted to see, there was only one person whose opinion he wanted to hear, there was only one person who was, like him, between the two worlds: John Sassamon, the Christian Indian, minister to the congregation at Natick, and Wussausmon, the same man but in different clothes, the advisor and translator to the Massasoit, the translator and advisor to the English: the go-between in the heart of this crisis.

Ned was so anxious in the days when dawn did not come till halfway through the morning, and then it was often a sky dark with snow clouds, that he thought he might summon Wussausmon by wishing for him, as if he were the devil, like his brother-translators. Or he might call on John Sassamon through prayer—like a disciple in the Bible stories. But one day, as Ned was pouring a jug of boiling water into the earthenware bowl of ice in the cowpen, he heard a shout from where the wicket gate was buried under the snow and saw Wussausmon himself waiting courteously outside the garden where the fence should have been.

“Come in! Come in!” Ned shouted. “Am I glad to see you!”

“I can’t stay,” Wussausmon said, gliding towards him on his snowshoes. “But I was going downstream and thought I would come to say good-bye.”

Ned splashed water on the straw as his hand shook. “Good-bye? Won’t you step inside and get warm?”

“No, I’m warm as it is. But I would not go past your house, Nippe Sannup, without a greeting.”

“Don’t go,” Ned said quickly. “You can eat with me? I have some succotash on the fire.”

Wussausmon dived into a pocket under his cape and brought out a strip of dried meat. “Try this,” he suggested.

He held it out to Ned and Ned nibbled the end. The rich warm taste of dried moose tongue filled his mouth. “That’s good,” he said ruefully. “Better than my succotash!”

Generously, Wussausmon tore off a strip. “Put it in the succotash,” he said. “It will flavor the whole pot. And don’t forget to give thanks.”

“But where are you going in such a hurry?” Ned asked. “Oh—Wussausmon, are you going to Montaup?”

“There are many gathering there,” Wussausmon said. “You told them? You warned your people?”

“I did. But it didn’t do any good,” Ned said, looking away from the direct dark gaze and staring instead at the bare black trunks of the trees and the white stripes of snow on their bark, at the delicate lines of ice on every twig. “I am sorry, I said everything that I could—but they are determined that King Philip—Massasoit—shall answer to them. They know of the gatherings, they know he is stockpiling weapons. I told them it all but they’re not going to make peace; they’re going to summon him to answer.”

“I will have to warn them,” Wussausmon said. “I will go to Plymouth myself. As the Massasoit’s translator I must be believed. I will tell them that he must have his rights under their own law. I know the law, I can read it. I will have to make them listen to me.”

“They’re frightened, they won’t listen,” Ned said, and at once cursed himself for telling an Indian that the white men were frightened. “Lord, I shouldn’t have said that to you. Wussausmon, we have been friends, we cannot be on the brink of being enemies. Mrs. Rose—the minister’s housekeeper—she’s talking about leaving here altogether, going back to Boston.”

“Will you go with her?”

Ned looked from the frosted trees to the great river flowing under the thick ice, the forest on the other side, and the snowcap on his little house where the chimney sent a single stream of smoke into the translucent sky. “How can I? How can I leave here? This is my home!”

A dark smile crossed Wussausmon’s face. “Ah, do you feel it now? That you belong to the land and it belongs to you? That you cannot leave?”

“Almost,” Ned said tentatively.

“I shall look for you here when I come by again, if I ever come by again,” Wussausmon told him. “But Mrs. Rose is right: none of you are safe here.”

“I wear Quiet Squirrel’s moccasins every day,” Ned objected. “My roof is thatched with the reeds she traded me. Are you saying that I am in danger from her now?”

“All of us who have been living between the worlds will have to choose,” Wussausmon said. “You’re on the very edge here, Nippe Sannup, between water and land, between tribal lands and English village, between one world and another. You will have to choose.”

“And you?” Ned asked his friend. “Between the praying town with your wife and children and the warpath at Montaup. Will you have to choose too?”

Wussausmon turned to his friend, his face impassive but his eyes bright with tears. “I will have to betray someone,” he said quietly. “I am Squanto.”