If she knew where he was, she wasn’t saying. For the time being, she and the children remained at the Big House with us. She smiled and paid attention to the other children, as mothers must, though she seemed always to be listening for something that wasn’t there. Fergus’s footsteps? I wondered.
One good thing: she kept Henri-Christian always close to her, carrying him in a sling, or sitting by her feet in his basket of woven rushes. I’d seen parents who had given birth to children with defects; often, their response was to withdraw, unable to deal with the situation. Marsali dealt with it in the other way, becoming fiercely protective of him.
Visitors came, ostensibly to speak to Jamie about something or to get a bit of a tonic or a salve from me—but really in hopes of catching a glimpse of Henri-Christian. It was no surprise, therefore, that Marsali tensed, clutching Henri-Christian to her bosom, when the back door opened and a shadow fell across the threshold.
She relaxed a little, though, seeing that the visitor was Young Ian.
“Hello, coz,” he said, smiling at her. “Are ye well, then, and the bairn, too?”
“Verra well,” she said firmly. “Come to visit your new cousin, have ye?” I could see that she eyed him narrowly.
“I have, aye, and brought him a wee present, too.” He lifted one big hand, and touched his shirt, which bulged a little with whatever was inside it. “Ye’re well, too, I hope, Auntie Claire?”
“Hallo, Ian,” I said, getting to my feet and putting aside the shirt I’d been hemming. “Yes, I’m fine. Do you want some beer?” I was grateful to see him; I’d been keeping Marsali company while she sewed—or rather, standing guard over her to repel the less-welcome sort of visitor, while Mrs. Bug was tending to the chickens. But I had a decoction of stinging-nettle brewing in the surgery, and needed to check on it. Ian could be trusted to take care of her.
Leaving them with refreshment, I escaped to my surgery and spent a pleasant quarter of an hour alone with the herbs, decanting infusions and separating a heap of rosemary to dry, surrounded by pungent scent and the peacefulness of plants. Such solitude was hard to come by these days, with children popping up underfoot like mushrooms. Marsali was anxious to go back to her own home, I knew—but I was loath to let her go without Fergus there to provide some help.
“Bloody man,” I muttered under my breath. “Selfish little beast.”
Evidently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so. As I came back down the hall, reeking of rosemary and ginseng root, I overheard Marsali expressing a similar opinion to Ian.
“Aye, I ken he’s taken back, who wouldna be?” she was saying, her voice full of hurt. “But why must he run awa, and leave us alone? Did ye speak to him, Ian? Did he say anything?”
So that was it. Ian had been gone on one of his mysterious journeys; he must have encountered Fergus somewhere, and told Marsali about it.
“Aye,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Just a bit.” I hung back, not wanting to interrupt them, but I could see his face, the ferocity of his tattoos at odds with the sympathy that clouded his eyes. He leaned across the table, holding out his arms. “Can I hold him, coz? Please?”
Marsali’s back stiffened with surprise, but she handed over the baby, who squirmed and kicked a little in his wrappings, but quickly settled against Ian’s shoulder, making little smacking noises. Ian bent his head, smiling, and brushed his lips across Henri-Christian’s big round head.
He said something soft to the baby, in what I thought was Mohawk.
“What’s that ye said?” Marsali asked, curious.
“A sort of blessing, ye’d call it.” He patted Henri-Christian’s back, very softly. “Ye call upon the wind to welcome him, the sky to give him shelter, and the water and the earth to yield him food.”
“Oh.” Marsali’s voice was soft. “That’s so nice, Ian.” But then she squared her shoulders, unwilling to be distracted. “Ye spoke wi’ Fergus, ye said.”
Ian nodded, eyes closed. His cheek rested lightly on the baby’s head. He didn’t speak for a moment, but I saw his throat move, the big Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“I had a child, cousin,” he whispered, so softly that I barely heard him.
Marsali heard him. She froze, the needle she had picked up glinting in her hand. Then, moving very slowly, put it down again.
“Did ye, then?” she said just as softly. And rising, went round the table in a quiet rustle of skirts to sit beside him on the bench, close enough that he could feel her there, and laid a small hand against his elbow.
He didn’t open his eyes, but drew breath, and with the baby nestled against his heart, began to talk, in a voice hardly louder than the crackle of the fire.
HE WOKE OUT OF SLEEP, knowing that something was deeply wrong. He rolled toward the back of the bed platform, where his weapons lay at hand, but before he could seize knife or spear, he heard again the sound that must have wakened him. It came from behind him; no more than a slight catch of breath, but he heard both pain and fear in it.
The fire burned very low; he saw no more than the dark top of Wako’teqehsnonhsa’s head, a red glow outlining it, and the double mound of shoulder and hip beneath the furs. She didn’t move or make the sound again, but something in those still dark curves cleft through his heart like a tomahawk striking home.
He gripped her shoulder fiercely, willing her to be all right. Her bones were small and hard through her flesh. He could find no proper words; all the Kahnyen’kehaka had fled out of his head, and so he spoke in the first words that came to him.
“Lass—love—are ye all right, then? Blessed Michael defend us, are ye well?”
She knew he was there, but didn’t turn to him. Something—a strange ripple, like a stone thrown in water—went through her, and the breath caught in her throat again, a small dry sound.
He didn’t wait, but scrambled naked from the furs, calling for help. People came tumbling out into the dim light of the longhouse, bulky shapes hurrying toward him in a fog of questions. He couldn’t speak; didn’t need to. Within moments, Tewaktenyonh was there, her strong old face set in grim calm, and the women of the longhouse rushed past him, pushing him aside as they carried Emily away, wrapped in a deer’s hide.
He followed them outside, but they ignored him, disappearing into the women’s house at the end of the village. Two or three men came out, looked after them, then shrugged, turned, and went back inside. It was cold, and very late, and plainly women’s business.
He went inside himself, after a few moments, but only long enough to pull on a few clothes. He couldn’t stay in the longhouse, not with the bed empty of her and smelling of blood. There was blood on his skin as well, but he didn’t pause to wash.
Outside, the stars had faded, but the sky was still black. It was bone-cold, and very still.
The hide that hung over the door of his longhouse moved, and Rollo slipped through, gray as a ghost. The big dog extended his paws and stretched, groaning with the stiffness of the hour and the cold. Then he shook his heavy ruff, snorted out a puff of white breath, and ambled slowly to his master’s side. He sat down heavily, with a resigned sigh, and leaned against Ian’s leg.
Ian stood a moment longer, looking toward the house where his Emily was. His face was hot, fevered with urgency. He burned harsh and bright, like a coal, but he could feel the heat seeping out of him into the cold sky, and his heart turning slowly black. Finally, he slapped his palm against his thigh and turned away into the forest, walking fast, the dog padding big and soundless by his side.
“Hail Mary, full of grace . . .” He paid no attention to where he was going, praying under his breath, but aloud, for the comfort of his own voice in the silent dark.
Ought he to be praying to one of the Mohawk spirits, he wondered? Would they be angry that he spoke to his old God, to God’s mother? Might they take revenge for such a slight, on his wife and child?
The child is dead already. He had no notion where that knowledge came from, but he knew it was so, as surely as if someone had spoken the words to him aloud. The knowledge was dispassionate, not yet food for grief; only a fact he knew to be true—and was appalled to know it.
On he went into the woods, walking, then running, slowing only when he must, to draw breath. The air was knife-cold and still, smelling of rot and turpentine, but the trees whispered just a little as he passed. Emily could hear them talk; she knew their secret voices.
“Aye, and what good is that?” he muttered, face turned up to the starless void between the branches. “Ye dinna say anything worth knowing. Ye dinna ken how it is with her now, do ye?”
He could hear the dog’s feet now and then, rustling among the dead leaves just behind him, thudding softly on patches of bare ground. He stumbled now and then, feet lost in the darkness, fell once bruisingly, stumbled to his feet, and ran clumsily on. He had stopped praying; his mind wouldn’t form words any longer, couldn’t choose among the fractured syllables of his different tongues, and his breath burned thick in his throat as he ran.
He felt her body against him in the cold, her full br**sts in his hands, her small round bu**ocks thrusting back, heavy and eager as he rammed her, oh, God, he knew he ought not, he knew! And yet he’d done it, night after night, mad for the slippery tight clutch of her, long past the day when he knew he should stop, selfish, mindless, mad and wicked with lust. . . .
He ran, and her trees murmured condemnation above him as he went.
He had to stop, sobbing for breath. The sky had turned from black to the color that comes before the light. The dog nosed at him, whining softly in his throat, amber eyes gone blank and dark in the no-light of the hour.
Sweat poured down his body under the leather shirt, soaked the draggled breechclout between his legs. His privates were chilled, shriveled against his body, and he could smell himself, a rank, bitter scent of fear and loss.
Rollo’s ears pricked, and the dog whined again, moving a step away, back, away again, tail twitching nervously. Come, he was saying, as clearly as words. Come now!
For himself, Ian could have lain down on the frozen leaves, buried his face in the earth, and stayed. But habit pulled at him; he was accustomed to heed the dog.
“What?” he muttered, dragging a sleeve across his wet face. “What is it, then?”
Rollo growled, deep in his throat. He was standing rigid, the hackles slowly rising on his neck. Ian saw it, and some distant tremor of alarm made itself felt through the fog of exhausted despair. His hand went to his belt, found emptiness there, and slapped at it, unbelieving. Christ, he had not so much as a skinning knife!
Rollo growled again, louder. A warning, meant to be heard. Ian turned, looking, but saw only the dark trunks of cedar and pine, the ground beneath them a mass of shadows, the air between them filled with mist.
A French trader who had come to their fire had called such a time, such a light, l’heure du loup—the hour of the wolf. And for good reason: it was a hunting time, when the night grows dim, and the faint breeze that comes before the light begins to rise, carrying the scent of prey.