In The Face Of Death (21 page)

It was the fifth time Madelaine had met with the clan leaders, and she found that the talk would not go any more easily than it had the first time she tried to speak with them. They tolerated her as a stranger more than they did as a woman; Simon Wright, who at sixty-eight was the most senior of the leaders, had yet to say more than two words to her.

The men sat in a circle around a low and unnecessary fire; a few of them were smoking pipes, and all were listening to Nathaniel Hill recount in their language, interspersed with English words where the Choctaw had none suitable, the meeting he had had with the Creek leaders three days ago. Insects droned in the still afternoon, and the first hint of autumn was in the long shadows cast by the pines. “They are inclined to the federalists, as the position best suited to their aims, and the one most likely to gain them statehood. They would rather not maintain their posture alone, for that would make it appear that dissention existed here in regard to the government. I told them I would broach the matter with you.” As Hill concluded his report, he sat down, giving Joseph Greentree the opportunity to speak.

“I say it is to our advantage if we support the Creek,” he declared. “If there is one government in charge of all, then we have just the one to deal with instead of four states and four governors. It is easier to get the ear of one President than to force four governors to agree, for they are jealous of one another and will not do anything that they suppose will advance the others.” He moved aside.

“That supposes that the President will give better justice than the governors,” protested James Pearce, one of the younger leaders. “If we are granted statehood, we will not want to be answerable to the President for everything. If the President is oppressive and unwilling to hear our petitions, is it not better to have governors who can be appealed to? Perhaps not every one will honor our requests, but if we persuade one, it will be easier to persuade the others, and if we can persuade only one, we will have something for our efforts. If we cannot convince the President, we will have nowhere to turn, and no autonomy of our own, for the rights of states will not exist.” He glared suddenly at Madelaine. “We should not speak in front of her. Who knows what she will tell the officials.”

Joseph Greentree got to his feet once more. “We have already agreed to permit her to listen, and I do not want to deny her what we have agreed she may have. I will stand for her reliability.” He folded his arms, watching Simon Wright for his response. “I believe she will not betray us.”

“Good,” said Pearce. “It would not be fitting to be compromised by a woman.” He shot a quick look at Madelaine, his dislike showing well beyond acceptable bounds.

“We are not unkind to our guests,” said Simon Wright, very quietly.

James Pearce did not take this reprimand well. “How is it that we are her hosts? She came to us. We are not obliged to her.”

“We do not dishonor those who come to us in peace,” Simon Wright said, not willing to look at Madelaine.

“She came here in good faith,” said Joseph Greentree. “She has abided by the requirements we have made of her—”

“Hah!” Pearce countered. “What white woman comes to Indians in good faith? She wants something from us—”

Knowing it was unthinkably rude, Madelaine stood and said, in faltering Choctaw, “Yes, I want something from you. James Pearce is right. I have said this from the first. I want to know all you can tell me of your people, so that I may set it down.”

Four of the men stared at her, two of them so shocked that Madelaine began to feel embarrassed for her outburst. Finally Joseph Greentree began to smile. “She is a good student.”

“Too good,” muttered James Pearce. “We should not allow her to listen if she understands so much. She is worse than a spy among us.”

“I do not think she is a spy,” said Allan Riverman. “I think she may be something much more dangerous than a spy.” Since the death of his wife in childbirth, two years ago, Allan Riverman had been suspicious of all women, as if his wife had touched all females with the potential of death; all those listening, except Madelaine, knew this.

“She is too impetuous,” said James Pearce. “She lacks judgment.”

“It is wrong for her to speak,” said the half-blind William Taylor.

Five of the leaders nodded their concurrence, but Joseph Greentree said, “She is not one of our women, who must live by our ways. She is a visitor here, not Choctaw. If we permit the missionary women to speak to do their duties, then we must allow her to, as well, no matter what the missionaries tell us. She may listen to us and not trouble our women with her foreignness. It is not fitting that she be accused and have no one to speak for her.”

“Better she were gone,” said James Pearce.

Allan Riverman made a sign that gained the attention of all the leaders. He rose from his place and regarded Madelaine with a direct stare, apparently unmindful of the implied insult in his steady look. “You say you record what you learn of us. What do you do with your records of what you have learned?”

It took a moment for Madelaine to calm herself sufficiently to answer. “I write them as
. . .
detailed reports on what I have seen and been taught, and when they are ready, I send them to my publisher, who is in the Dutch city of Amsterdam. That is across the ocean, far to the east—”

“I know where Amsterdam is,” said Allan Riverman. “And I know where France is, as well. We may not travel about the world as you do, but we know something of it.” He indicated she should continue.

Now Madelaine was feeling slightly flustered. “Well. My accounts are printed and published from there, in French and English. Most of the copies of my work are bought by scholars at universities. Some are sold to those interested in America.” She stared down at her hands, and tried not to appear nervous as she laced her fingers together. “It is rare that more than a thousand copies are sold, over a period of three or four years.”

Riverman was concentrating on everything she said. “A thousand copies. So many.”

“It is actually not a large figure,” she said, wishing she knew how much any of these men had read. “My publisher calls it respectable.” For an instant she saw Saint-Germain standing before her, elegant and compelling, his dark eyes glowing with pride in her. She felt her self-possession return. “I have not offended any of those I have written about thus far.”

“Are you certain of that?” asked Allan Riverman, regarding her with determination. “Do you have any direct knowledge of this from any of those you have written about?”

Finally Madelaine smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have a letter from the administrative head of the Kiowa, thanking me for recording the working of their calendar. His name is Running Cat, and he is an old man, much-honored by his people. I can bring the letter to you—he wrote it in English.”

“In English,” repeated Allan Riverman. “How convenient.”

“It is, for the sake of my publisher,” said Madelaine. “Running Cat reads the language better than he speaks it. There are times he claims he does not speak it at all, and there are foolish people who believe him, to their sorrow.”

Simon Wright gave a single crack of laughter and motioned with his pipe. “It is well that she has given us her word. I would not like to be opposed by this one.” He looked away, and it was understood that he accepted Madelaine’s presence for the time being.

“Why do you allow this?” demanded Allan Riverman of Simon Wright. “She is a foreigner. She is a
woman!”

Simon Wright turned back to Riverman. “Why allow it? Because she is foreign and a woman. If anyone questions what we have said, she is the best witness we can produce, for she has no direct interest in our people, and no hope of reward from us for supporting us. What she reports can help us.” He put his pipe back in his mouth and once again stared off through the trees.

Allan Riverman heard him out in astonishment. When the old man fell silent, he turned to the others. “I no longer object. She can stay.”

With the Choctaw, 22 January, 1858

Winter continues bitter, but not as hard as the one I passed with the Cheyenne. With the considerable information on the Choctaw I have amassed, I am busy every day, which pleases me, especially now that Simon Wright has agreed to tell me more of the history of his people, including events before Europeans arrived here from Spain and France. Since I provided his widowed daughter with a draught to ease her stiffening fingers, which the Choctaw herb-healers have not been able to do, he has been convinced that I mean his people no harm, and has made certain that the other leaders do not slight me. . . .

Now that I am half-way through the first load of books, I am beginning to hunger for more; in a month or so I should have a carton of them from Harris in Philadelphia. I find it strange that I should go without them for more than a year and miss them only occasionally, but once I have a dozen in my hands, I long for another twenty. . . .

Reverend Sampson is still here, and is still determined to “bring the Gospel” to all the heathen in Indian Territory. I have rarely encountered anyone with so narrow a mind as the good preacher possesses. He is distrusting not only of anything he does not believe is Christian, but of any Christianity that does not conform to his notions of it. He regards me as dangerous because I am obviously a Catholic, and therefore suspect. He strongly endorses the prohibition that prevents me from speaking with the women here. If he had any notion of my true nature, he would most certainly resort to the Church’s methods of dealing with those of my blood, and burn me at the stake. . . .

I wonder if I should risk visiting Allan Riverman in his dreams again, with all the disturbance Reverend Sampson is causing? Little as Allan Riverman trusts me, he is drawn to me, and it gives his dreams a potency that I am grateful to have, since I cannot have knowing passion, as Tecumseh gave me. . . .

The night breeze smelled of apple blossoms, and the sound of the nearby stream, now running full, added a gentle melody to the darkness. The Riverman house was at the front of a small grove of pine, the door facing south as tradition demanded.

Madelaine approached the building from the side, coming through the edge of the pines, moving with the shadows. Finally she stood beneath the window of the room where Allan Riverman slept. With a faint sigh, she began to climb up the tree nearest the side of the house, choosing hand- and foot-holds that had become familiar to her in the last months. She reached the branch that came nearest the window, and made her way with care along it, aware that her position was precarious. At last she was as near to the window as the branch came, and the most dangerous part of her journey. Without her extraordinary vampire strength and pliancy, this next maneuver would have been impossible. She stretched out her left leg, and secured her foot over the lip of the roof. Then she reached out her arm, sacrificing her firm hold on the branch to do this. With a quick shift, she swung her weight from the branch to the edge of the roof immediately below the window. Then, very carefully she eased her right arm and leg onto this narrow perch.

For an interminable instant she teetered there, unable to scrabble for purchase because that would risk waking Allan Riverman inside. Then she regained her balance, and started to open the window, taking care to move slowly and carefully so that no sound would alert him. When she had enough of a gap in the window, she slipped through and stood in the shadows, letting the sense of the room come to her before she moved toward the pallet where Riverman slept, his cotton night-shirt open at the neck, his blanket drawn half-way up his chest.

Madelaine watched him, assessing the depth of his sleep. When she was satisfied that it would be safe to approach him, she moved forward carefully, speaking his Choctaw name that he had told her in an unguarded moment a few days ago. She kept her voice low, saying “How beautiful is sleep. In your sleep you are enveloped in the beauty of all things, and you know your sleep makes you part of all things. Your sleep is so sweet that you want nothing more than to enter more deeply into its realm, where you may seek the serenity of the beauty given in sleep, which encompasses all things. Your satisfaction in sleep is so great that you will not be taken from it while the beauty of your dreams engulfs you. You know the richness of your dreams, and honor them with your sleep.” She reached his side. “The great beauty is life, to see all around you filled with life,” the rich cadences of the Choctaw language turning this to poetry. “It is an honor to embrace life, to walk in the beauty of life.” Now she was standing next to his pallet, and she knelt beside him, moving with greater care than before. This was the crucial part, where her risk of waking him and facing discovery were greatest. It was also where she longed most poignantly for the acceptance of her nature and her self that would make his dreams unnecessary. “You are part of all the beauty, which fills you with its own joy. You enter into the whole of life, and you are beautiful with it.” She touched him, her fingers lighter than a passing breeze. “You are endowed with life; it stirs you.”

Allan Riverman moved slightly, his breathing becoming slower and more regular as he fell more profoundly asleep.

“You are surrounded by all things beautiful, and you seek them with all your heart, with all your soul.” Her voice was hardly a whisper now; she kissed his chest where his nightshirt was open, and waited to see if he would waken. When she was certain he would not, she went on, “You are sustained by the beauty around you. You are part of it, joined with it, taken into the First Ancestor, and made one with all the world.” She felt his excitement increase, and she wished he would embrace her, accept and know the gift she imparted. But that was folly, an invitation to disaster. Long experience had taught her to accept the limitations of her nature. As she enflamed his desires to the height, she pressed her lips to his neck, sharing in his ephemeral exaltation.