Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (49 page)

Once after she finished praying the village werowance broke into miserable screeching and cursed her for coming to
Ramushonnouk. For more than an hour he raved about the evil of her blue eyes and the affliction of sickness she had brought upon them all. When he finally fell silent, Gilda looked at him and in a ghastly moment of recognition saw that he was dead. There was no one to embalm the chief’s body; no one to mourn him. Gilda pulled the corpse outside, wrapped it in buckskin, and waited for the next to die.

The older people died first, then the babies who had fallen ill.
On the twelfth day of her vigil she noticed that Anakausuen’s blisters had begun to crust and heal, and she held every hope that he would recover. But a cry from the women’s hut called her away from his side, and she hurried there in time to recite a prayer for an old woman who struggled for her life’s last breaths:

“
O Father of mercies and God of all comfort, our only help in time of need,” Gilda prayed, the memorized words automatically springing to her lips. “We fly unto thee for succor in behalf of this thy servant, here lying under thy hand in great weakness of body. Look graciously upon her, O Lord; and the more the outward man decayeth, strengthen her, we beseech thee, so much the more continually with thy grace and Holy Spirit in the inner man. Give her unfeigned repentance for all the errors of her life past, and steadfast faith in thy son Jesus; that her sins may be done away by thy mercy, and her pardon sealed in heaven, before she go hence and be no more seen—”

The woman exhaled and did not breathe again.
Gilda lay her fingers upon the two blistered eyelids and closed the dark eyes forever.

While the other women
’s meowing wails of sorrow tore through her heart, Gilda pulled four dead women out of the hut and lay them with the body of the chief. Wearily, she paused and leaned against a tree to consider her plight. Had God brought her out from the English to destroy her own people? She could not deny that the sickness had begun in the very hour that Anakausuen took her to be his wife. Had God cursed her for marrying a so-called “heathen?” Was the failure of her healing gifts part of a harsh God’s penance?

“
You must come.” One of the children tugged on her skirt and pointed toward the men’s hut. With a helpless wave of her hands, Gilda followed the little boy to Anakausuen’s sprawled body. A pool of blood, not yet congealed, bloomed in a small puddle beneath his proud head. The English knife lay in his hand.

In a moment of atavistic horror, Gilda realized what had happened.
Too proud to struggle under the pain, her husband had cut his own throat.

Weeping silently, Gilda removed the knife from the hut, then dragged the body of Anakausuen to the others.
With curt words and sharp gestures she directed the children to bring wood and the belongings of the dead; these were placed on and around the wrapped bodies. ‘Twould be the first funereal pyre. ‘Twould not be the last.

She made the children stand behind her as the fire blazed, and the horrible smell of burning flesh and hair filled the air as the tongues of fire leapt and danced in the orange-tinted darkness.
When the flames had died down, Gilda sent the children to sleep in their hut. Tomorrow she would send them far away to another village where the killing strength of death’s arm did not summon every woman and warrior.

Someone called weakly from the women
’s hut, but Gilda did not answer. What could she do? Nothing. She had suffered in the past at the hand of God, but never had she been surrounded by such pain that she had to close her heart and mind to it lest she go insane.

Her worthy husband lay blackened in death.
Her new village was a cesspit of disease, her dreams and hopes nothing but ashes in the funeral fire pit.

She lay down on the ground in front of the fire and watched the gleaming embers until sleep claimed her.

Three men and two women remained alive at the end of the second week. Gilda thought the men might recover, as long as they did not resist the pain so violently that they exhausted their strength, and she prayed for a long time over the body of one warrior, a young man who had not spoken since staggering into the hut two weeks before. He lay quietly, his body ravaged by the pox, his eyes closed, but once or twice she thought she saw his lips struggle to form words as she prayed “and in the name of the Father, and the Son and the—”

“
Holy Ghost.”

She gasped, amazed that he should know those English words.
Leaning forward, she studied him closely. His skin was bronzed in color, his hair dark and worn like the others of this village, his face composed of straight lines and clean features. Despite the disease she could tell that his body possessed the slenderness and strength of youth, but his arms and shoulders were tattooed with the mark of a tribe she did not recognize.

She whispered to him in the Algonquin tongue:
“Are you awake?” His eyes flew open, and Gilda felt a chill shock at the sight of them. Green, they were, the color of the river in summer when plants grow near to the surface, the green of the forest after summer rains. Gilda had never seen green eyes in the face of an Indian.

“
How did you learn of the Holy Ghost?” she whispered, tenderly resting her hand upon his flaming chest. “The English name of God?”

He made a weak effort to smile and lifted his shoulder in what passed for a shrug.
“I do not know,” he answered, his voice laced with suffering.

“
You finished my prayer to the true God,” she said, settling back to observe him more closely. He was past the worst of the sickness; his skin was crusted with the blisters, though not one inch of his body had been spared from pain. “What is your name?” she asked.

Apparently even speaking was painful, for he grimaced with the effort.
“Nosh,” he answered finally.

“
And have you lived always with this tribe?”

“
Yes,” he murmured, and though Gilda pressed him further, he would not speak again. Wary of causing him undue pain, she left him to rest.

That night Gilda stood beneath a black sky, icy with a wash of brilliant stars, and wondered why the Creator God had added another facet to her suffering.
For the youth in the hut was of certain Fallon’s brother, for Nosh was an adult version of the name
Noshi
. Despite her prayers, he would die like the others. If she ever saw Fallon again, she would have to tell him that she brought disease to the village of his beloved brother. Fallon’s love would turn to loathing, and he would rue the day he had ever boarded the great winged ship that returned him to this land of death and destruction.

The next day she prayed again over Nosh, and heard him whisper his thanks.
The other two warriors, sensing that they had little strength left, began the undulating wails of their death songs, determined to show death that they faced him without fear. Noshi, however, continued to breathe deeply and evenly. Because her prayers seemed to bring him comfort, Gilda stayed by his side throughout the day and offered every quotation from Mistress Rolfe’s
Book of Common Prayer
that she could remember.

At length the two warriors grew silent and stiffened, and Nosh
’s breathing slowed. Gilda took his hand and pressed it to her cheek as tears began to flow, and the green eyes opened again and smiled up at her. “Numees,” he whispered, and she understood what he meant:
sister.

“
Yea,” she answered, pressing her lips into his palm with an affection she had not felt even for her dying husband. “Tell me, if you can, does the name
Fallon
mean aught to you?”

The ghost of a smile played across Nosh
’s face. “Yes,” he answered, his voice rasping. “My dead brother.”

Gilda
’s eyes flooded with tears. Why had God gifted Nosh with memories while she had none? But ‘twasn’t important now; she had to tell him that Fallon had not died.

“
Fallon is alive, he is with the English,” she said, bending closer. “He hath been searching for you, but he thought you lived with the Tripanicks. He is at Jamestown, and when you are better I will take you to him.”

Nosh struggled to catch his breath as mingled expressions of eagerness and fear crossed his face.
“Opechancanough will attack the English soon,” he whispered, holding her with a steady gaze. “You must warn my brother. Jamestown will be destroyed—everything English will be wiped from the land.”

“
That’s impossible,” Gilda said, smoothly raking his hair from his sweaty forehead. She forced a smile. “One tribe cannot rid the land of the English—”

“
All the Powhatan tribes,” Nosh repeated, his eyes darkening. “Every warrior will fight. Every English will die. It is settled.”

Gilda's smile vanished
as the full import of his words hit her. ‘Twas no wonder Opechancanough sent her far away! He suspected that she would not support an uprising against the English. To prevent her from warning them as Pocahontas had often done, he had sent her away with a worthy husband so she would not suspect that she did not remain in his favor. She flinched, stunned and saddened by her own gullibility.

“
When will this attack take place?” she asked, frantic, but Nosh’s eyes had closed and he could no longer hear her.

Nosh roused himself briefly the next day and his green eyes locked on hers as Gilda washed the suppurating sores on his flesh.
“You are Gilda,” he said simply, as if the truth had just occurred to him. “You still wear the ring.”

“
Yea,” she answered, a smile softening her lips. “I understand that we are old friends.”

His lips curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Gilda, I am ready to die.”

A sob caught at her throat, but his eyes held hers and she understood what he wanted.
Not for him a death song, but a prayer, the prayer of faith for those who followed the true God, the Father of Jesus Christ.

Gilda put down the soft washcloth and held Nosh
’s swollen hands in her own. “Almighty God,” she prayed, keeping her eyes locked on her patient’s face, “I humbly commend the soul of this thy servant, my dear brother, into thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator and most merciful Savior; most humbly beseeching thee, that it may be precious in thy sight. Wash it, I pray thee, in the blood of that immaculate Lamb that was slain to take away the sins of the world, that it may be presented pure and without spot before thee. Amen.”

Leaning over Nosh, she murmured a question:
“Believe you in God?”

His parched lips cracked open:
“I believe in God the Father, who hath made me and all the world.”

“
And in the Son?”

“
I believe in God the Son, who hath redeemed me and all mankind.”

“
And in the Holy Ghost?”

“Who sanctifieth me, and all the elect people of God.” “Then go in peace, my brother.”

Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his.

Nosh did not speak again, but died on the second day of her own fever, and Gilda used her remaining strength to place his body with the others before lighting the pyre. Enervated by the stress of nursing and the fever that raged through her body, she slumped to the ground and watched the flames rise and claim the last of her people.

The black smoke climbed to the low hanging clouds and then curled in upon itself like a dark and angry flower as Gilda closed her eyes in weariness.
‘Twas finished. She had done all she could do, and there was no one left.

Thirty-eight

F
allon’s patience had nearly evaporated when he finally found Brody in the public house. Brody sat with his feet propped upon the table and a mug in his hand, and Fallon came forward and gave his friend a killing look.

“
What?” Brody asked, his eyes widening innocently. “What’d I do?”

“‘
Tis what you didn’t do,” Fallon answered, pulling up a stool. “You were supposed to burn off the corn shucks of Mistress Rolfe’s field today, but spring will be upon us before you get your sorry carcass out to take care of it.”

“
Faith, I’ll do it in a wee bit,” Brody said, waving his mug carelessly. “What’s the rush?”

“
I want to get things straightened away at the house,” Fallon said, frowning at the sheaf of papers he pulled from his doublet. “There’s a ship just arrived at the docks, and undoubtedly there’ll be a new lot of men to care for. And that field hath to be made ready for the spring planting, and Wart needs a new pair of shoes from the cobbler. There’s precious little money to take care of everything, and yet I think we should—”