Ellen slogged over the muddy path toward Zara’s lodge, a crude, dome-shaped structure of poles and bark behind the barn. As she approached, images flashed through her mind of that frozen day in February, when she, Molly, and Ben had assisted Zara in building it. And while Charles held the listless Abby in his arms, all prayed for a miracle.
She listened to the sounds of distant laughter rising above the bleating of lambs in their pen. Abby and Ethan…and Katherine. The sound brought a pensive smile to her face. Not too long ago, she feared she would never hear her daughter’s voice again, let alone her laughter. Not three days ago, her brother’s life had hung by a thread. Yes, miracles were possible.
Ellen stooped to lift the bark flap from the opening of the sweat lodge, and peered inside. In the darkness within, Zara sat cross-legged on the floor. She turned slowly, her face pale in the shadows, needles of light sparkling on her hair.
“I knew I’d find you here. May I come in?”
Zara motioned her inside. Ellen lowered her head to enter and sat across the pit, where the healing hot rocks had long since grown cold, and the smell of tobacco smoke lingered among glowing embers. Zara wearily rolled back her head.
“You know why I’ve come, don’t you?”
Zara nodded.
“Three days now, he’s asked for you. Three days you’ve refused see him. Why? I thought you loved him!”
Her shoulders heaving slightly, Zara drew in a quick breath. “It is because I love him that I cannot go,” she said slowly in a whisper, as if she lacked the strength to speak.
“That makes no sense! You stayed in here with him, at great risk to yourself. You did for him what none of us could have done. You saved his life! And now you withdraw at a time when you should be feeling more a part of us than ever before.” Ellen watched Zara bow her head. “We’re all beholden to you, Zara. You’ve given each of us a precious gift, and now you retreat as if you’re ashamed.”
“I am not ashamed. I’m happy for you and for Charles and Ben, for the little one. I am happy for Ethan.”
“Then go to him!”
Zara shook her head with a lethargy that revealed more than physical fatigue.
“Why, Zara?” she pleaded, “I’m your friend. Talk to me. Don’t tell me you fancy the idea of Katherine sinking her claws into him!”
Zara raised her head. Her eyes shone with a lackluster glaze from deep within the hollows of her face—pale, Ellen guessed, even in the sunlight. Only her hands, twisting the fabric of her skirts, possessed any of her former vigour. “I see them together, and I know in my heart it is wrong…what I want.”
“But she means nothing to—”
Zara held up a hand and again shook her head. “I have nothing to give him. I am…outlaw. Because of me, now he is outlaw. It is wrong, Ellen! It is because I love him that I wish for him a better life. More than I can give.”
Ellen swallowed hard and met Zara’s gaze.
Zara smiled sadly. “You know I can no longer stay. I do not think of Katherine when I say this.” Again she hung her head. “I know only that it is no longer safe for me. Or for you, so long as I am here. Soon they will come again, those men who hunt for me. They will find me.
“I cannot ask him to go,” Zara continued. “Back to Caughnawaga. Is not right…to ask him to make such a compromise. Not if I truly love him.”
Zara paused. Her manner had grown anxious, her face and hands tense. Ellen said nothing. Even though the realization pained her, she knew that Zara had spoken the truth.
“I have thought long and hard on this,” Zara said, her gaze fixed on her hands, clenching and relaxing in her lap. “I would have gone sooner, but I wish to see that he is well. Now my heart is easy. Now I can go.”
A lump rose in Ellen’s throat. “When?”
“Soon. When my strength returns.”
Ellen had not realized. The very means she had used to break Ethan’s fever had undermined her own health. To compound matters, Zara had taken little food—if any—over the days that had passed. She had said that she needed to purify herself. She had mentioned invoking visions to help guide her. At the time, Ellen was far too concerned with her brother’s recovery to pay it much mind. Now she regretted her neglect.
“Is there something I can do?”
Zara shook her head and smiled. “You have already done much for me.”
“But I want to do more. You’ll need food and clothes for your journey. Your moccasins…. They’re so badly worn!”
“You are very kind.”
“Not at all…and I insist. Tomorrow, I’m taking Abby to the market in town to sell some of our sugar and syrup. Katherine told me of a man from Albany who will pay in coin for such goods to sell from his shop. I will buy you what you need with the money he gives me. It’s the least I can do.”
“I will be happy to go with you. But you must promise me one thing.” Zara leaned toward her over the tendrils of smoke curling up from the embers. “Ethan. You must not tell him of my decision. When he finds I am gone, tell him you knew nothing.”
Ellen fixed on her eyes, sparkling with tears in the darkness. “You know he loves you, Zara. It’s you he loves.”
Zara clenched her eyes shut. Her voice wavered. “Promise me, Ellen!”
“My one concern for him is for his happiness.”
“It is mine as well. Now, promise you will not tell him.”
Frustration choked Ellen. She trembled. “Yes…Yes, I give you my word,” she blurted out, unsure that she would be able to keep such a promise. “I’ll say nothing.”
“That is good,” Zara whispered, languor once more overcoming her. “You are my true friend, Ellen.”
* * *
The man from Albany had set up his tent on the village green and parade grounds, along with the dozen or so other stalls from which traveling merchants and tradesmen hawked and traded wares in a festival-like atmosphere. Amid the pigs and chickens in their pens and the dogs and children running wild, men and women milled about the green, taking advantage of the first time since the advent of winter to get out and meet and greet and gossip with their neighbours. Kettles simmered over open fires, sending savoury aromas of soup and stew and hot cider mingling with the smell of the rich, damp earth. Bordering the green, local shopkeepers stood in the open doorways of their newly spruced up shops, and took in the sun and warmth of another fine spring afternoon.
Abby reluctantly tore her gaze from the throng of children gathered before the curtained booth. She tightened her hold on the rope around Bear’s neck. Bear whimpered and strained on the lead, not once diverting his attention from the mangy-looking dog across the common.
“Sit Bear!” she ordered. “Soon as Momma returns, we’ll buy you your very own bone. Won’t we, Zara?”
Zara turned from the curious happenings at the curtained booth and cast a glance toward the stall where Ellen continued to haggle with the man from Albany.
“We’ll buy him two bones,” she said, and quickly looked back at the curtained booth, where two strange, mask-like creatures had appeared and began pummeling each other with paddles. The children roared with laughter. Abby smiled.
“I do wish Momma would hurry! I would so like to watch the puppet show.”
“I do not see why they laugh.” Zara watched as one of the puppets lost its paddle and began wailing loudly. The children’s laughter swelled. “I think it is cruel.”
“Oh, but it’s not, Zara. Look at their faces!” And Abby burst out laughing at the creatures’ antics.
By the time Ellen rejoined them, the show had ended and the children began dispersing, some going off with their mothers, others running off in small gangs throwing snowballs, while those empowered with keeping the peace chased them willy-nilly around the green.
“Well, Momma…?” Abby’s disappointment was short-lived in the light of her mother’s good spirits.
Ellen held up her pocket and jingled the coins within. “He gave me two Spanish dollars for the sugar! And twelve shillings for the jars. He’s gone off with his boy to take the lot of it from our wagon.”
“Oh please, Momma, may I? May I have some lic’rish from Mr. Cooper’s shop?”
Ellen smiled. “Here’s two bits. Run off and buy yourself some licorice.” Abby bolted off with Bear at her heels. Her mother yelled after her, “And don’t forget to bring back the change!”
“Well,” Ellen sighed. “That man drives a hard bargain, but I think we reached a fair price. Now for you.”
The sight of the puppets beating each other had left Zara uneasy. Thoughts of Rufus Grey preyed on her mind. She wanted nothing more than to return to the house. “Really, Ellen, there is nothing I want.”
“Moccasins. I promised I’d find you a new pair of moccasins. Over there…”
She pointed across the green to a small, ragged group of Indian women who had set up their own trading post apart from the stalls. Seated on straw mats around a fire in front of a hastily constructed lean-to of sailcloth, they displayed poles strung with a meager assortment of woven straw goods.
Hiking her skirts up over her ankles, Ellen set off with determined steps. Reluctantly, Zara followed. She stopped a short distance from the place and observed Ellen inspecting the goods under the women’s watchful eyes. After a while, Ellen engaged one of the women in conversation.
The woman, old and withered beyond her years, calmly puffed on a clay pipe. She shook her head and pointed to another pole. While the others looked on, Ellen continued her fruitless search among the reed baskets, grass mats, and assorted brooms and brushes. She turned again, this time to a younger woman, and the same series of shrugs and gestures followed, to no avail. She glanced up with a look of frustration and anxiously motioned Zara closer.
The women turned, their curious yet unassuming stares falling as one on Zara where she stood. Without thinking, she averted her face in a show of respect. Their eyes, like so many remembered eyes, filled her with a painful longing. And a disturbing sensation swept over her with equal power. Not until she had drawn herself within their little circle did she understand why she felt so out of place.
They observed her with the same veiled suspicion with which they had regarded Ellen.
“Tell them we don’t want baskets and brooms,” Ellen said, uneasiness creeping into her voice.
Zara pulled up the muddied hem of her skirts, revealing her even muddier, tattered moccasins. “Ahtahkwah…” she said, her eyes lowered.
The old woman removed the pipe from her mouth and raised her eyebrows. Achta?”
“I think we do not speak the same language,” she said softly over her shoulder to Ellen, her agitation growing. “I think they are Mohawk…or Oneida. We should go now.”
Ellen closed in behind her and placed her hands on Zara’s shoulders. “Not until you have what we came for. Show them again.”
While the others watched in their stolid manner, Zara stepped around the fire to the old woman and squatted beside her. She pulled up her skirt and rubbed some of the mud from her moccasins with a handful of snow.
“Ahhh…” The old woman bent low over the quillwork and traced it with the stem of her pipe. She motioned one of the other women forward and pointed to the design. The other woman, who Zara assumed to be the old woman’s daughter, eyed the quillwork.
The daughter poked Zara’s arm. “Where you get?”
“I made them.”
“Where you learn this?” she asked, her eyes hardening with suspicion, as she outlined the pattern with a stick.
“My mother…”
“This is sign of Turtle Clan.”
“Yes. I am…. I was of the Turtle Clan.”
The woman partially unwrapped the blanket from around her shoulders and pulled down the front of her calico blouse, exposing a small blue turtle-shaped tattoo on her shoulder. She smiled. Her teeth were bad. “We are cousins.” She then said something to the others, who gathered around in curious fashion, smiling and nodding.
The ease with which she suddenly found herself accepted by the group only compounded her anxiety. A knot rose in her throat as she watched her new “cousin” disappear into the lean-to and return a moment later with a number of pairs of moccasins—obviously their own.
The woman placed the pile of moccasins by the fire while her mother removed the old ones from Zara’s feet. She tried on two pairs before finding a good fit in the third—moose hide, tanned to a soft but sturdy texture, ornamented with a pattern similar to the one on her own.
Ellen stepped closer. “Ask them how much they want.”
The women refused Ellen’s money, offering them both food instead. Ellen recoiled at the idea.
“It is bad manners to refuse,” Zara explained, but Ellen paced off to the edge of the women’s little circle and stared off in the direction of the shops.
“I’ll keep a watch for Abby,” she said.
Zara was not hungry, but she ate a little of the food presented to her in a wooden bowl. Small pieces of corn and squash in a thick liquid flavoured with venison made her heart ache. So much so that she was only partly aware when her new cousin addressed her in a wary voice.
“…over there…” The woman repeated, jostling her shoulder and making a sideways gesture with her head.
Zara glanced up in the direction the woman had indicated.
“He stares at you. You know him?”
The man stood apart from a group clustered around the stall not fifteen feet away. A look of uncertainty darkened his face when she met his gaze. And a wave of terror rippled from her head to her feet.
Jabez!
Her hands shook so violently that the stew splattered from the bowl. Her new cousin took it from her. Still, she could not tear her gaze from him.
“You fear this man,” her cousin said, and mumbled something to the others. A few made surreptitious glances over their shoulders as Jabez sidled over to the stall.
Zara pushed herself up on uncertain legs. “I cannot stay.”
“Go then.” Her cousin gently touched her arm. “Go quickly.”
Zara stumbled from the circle, not daring to look back until she had reached Ellen. “We must go,” she said. “Now.”
“What…what is it?”
Zara clamped her hands on Ellen’s elbow and began pulling her away. “We must find Abby and leave this place.” She glanced back at the women sitting indifferently in their circle around the fire, the old woman smoking as before, the others having resumed their weaving.
“Has something happened? What…?”
Zara’s heart hammered fiercely. “Rufus Grey’s son. Jabez. I think Sparks and some of the others are with him.”
Ellen paled as she stole a look back over her shoulder. “Did they see you? Did they recognize you?”
“I do not know. I think so.”
They pushed through the milling crowd, Ellen calling desperately for Abby as they went. Zara’s mind reeled with the memory of Rufus Grey, blood spreading on his shirt, seeping through his fingers. Damn you! he had growled. Damn you to Hell! I’ll kill you for this!
At any moment she expected to find herself confronted by Sparks and his men. Her skin prickled. As if in anticipation of the rough hempen cord tightening around her neck, she struggled to breathe.
They found Abby seated on the edge of a rain barrel in front Cooper’s apothecary, her face smeared with licorice, while Bear lay on the ground licking the same from his paws. Chewing on the last of her sticks, Abby eyed the half dozen children, who watched her with envy.
Her mother took her roughly by one sticky hand, and before the child could muster a protest, they were running toward the public field where the farm cart waited, the horses hitched to the fence.
The road was thick with mud and badly rutted by the traffic of the day. The going was slow and labourious. Ellen wore her frustration plainly for all to see, as she urged the horses on. In the wagon bed, Abby sat in a brooding silence, her arms around Bear, and watched the road behind them. Zara sat beside Ellen on the bench and stared straight ahead, pondering the wisdom in their flight.
She laid a hand on Ellen’s arm. “The horses struggle. It is no good.”
“Don’t talk your nonsense to me!”
“I want you to stop!”
“We’ll soon be home. You’ll be safe there.”
“No!” Zara yanked the lines from Ellen’s grasp and reined the horses to a halt. “You must leave me here.”
“What ever for?”
“You know we can’t outrun men on horses. And if we could, they will follow. Think of yourself. Think of Abby…your family!”
From the wagon bed, Bear let out a fierce and sustained growl.
“Momma!” Abby cried, “Men are coming! They’re coming fast.”
With a sinking heart, Zara glanced back. The mounted men would be on them in a matter of moments.
“It’s not too late,” Ellen said through her teeth. She grabbed the reins and whipped the horses into motion. “At least we must try. I’ll lie if I have to. With God’s help, maybe I can convince them you’re someone else. Lord knows you’re a sight different than you were last time they saw you.”
* * *
As he looked on from his horse, a queasy knot tightened in Jabez’ stomach. Watching the terror grip the women in the farm wagon was more than he could bear. The child cowered, whimpering in her mother’s arms, while Zara, tense and pale, restrained the large mongrel with words softly spoken and a trembling hand. At least the beast had stopped barking, but its teeth remained bared and a ferocious growl rumbled in its throat. Sparks and the McLaren brothers had dismounted and approached the cart.
Perhaps he should have said nothing to Sparks. Or maybe he should have convinced himself that the white woman he had seen with those squaws had been someone else. But the moment he saw her flee, he knew he’d not been mistaken. His own agitation had gotten the better of him. Had he only taken a moment to think…
The night of his father’s murder remained a hopeless jumble in his mind. All he could remember was Zara running. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor of the shed, his clothes soaked with blood. His father lay unconscious beside him, bleeding profusely from numerous, gaping wounds. His mother was screaming, sobbing. The recollection haunted his dreams.
He could not say he was sorry his father was dead. Since the commotion had subsided, life had become more ordered, more calm. Even his mother seemed less prone to worry, less anxious. She smiled more.
What could have possessed him to stir it all up again?
Zara turned to him with a pleading look. The other woman shouted something at Sparks. The child bawled. The dog growled.
“…by the authority vested in me….” Sparks’ voice droned on and on. Why did he not just get it over with so they could go, so they could leave and finish their business in the village?
The child wailed and grabbed at Zara’s skirts as she started unsteadily down from the cart. Otis McLaren closed in with a rope and brutally separated them. The child screamed, “No! No, leave her alone!” The sound pierced Jabez to the heart.
“For the love of God,” the woman cried, “must you bind her? Do you think she’s such a fool to try and run with the lot of you standing there with guns pointed at our heads?”
He’d not noticed the drawn weapons. Perhaps Sparks had overreached his authority. Perhaps they all overreacted. What did they expect from a couple of women and a child?
“Put away the rope, Otis,” Sparks snapped.
The child continued to wail. Zara said something to Sparks. He nodded impatiently. She climbed back onto the wagon and turned to the child, who hurled herself into Zara’s arms. Zara spoke to her and smoothed her hair. The child gasped and hiccupped, her face damp with tears, then Zara released her and, forcing a smile, nodded her head. Zara and the woman hugged each other. Now it was the woman who sobbed and needed reassuring.
At last Sparks motioned to McLaren, who tore Zara from the woman’s arms and hustled her away from the wagon to the horses.
As the men started back to the village, Jabez glanced back at the wagon. The woman sat still on the bench, her face pale as she stared after them. The child wept in her arms, while the dog howled like a wolf at the moon.