Mister Slaughter (25 page)

Matthew found himself directed toward one of the largest of the longhouses, and with a jumping and shouting mass of Indians at his back he was carried through curtains made of animal skins that covered its doorway. When his escorts abruptly halted and let him go he fell to his knees in the dirt.

The light was dim in here, the air smelling of pinewood smoke. The communal fire burned low, a pit of seething red embers. Suddenly a renewed shouting and calling in the Indian language erupted around him, and through the gloom Matthew saw first the glint of eyes. Converging on him from all sides, edging forward closer and closer, was a mob of men, women and children numbering too many to count. He was truly in another world now, as much as a being from another planet. Fear was driven deep into him at the sight of this multitude, but he had to stand up and assert himself, for in his experience Indians respected courage above all. But where was Greathouse? Here or in some other place? The mass of natives were ringing him, and some were daring to reach out as if to pluck at his clothes.

Matthew hauled himself to his feet, and shouted forcefully, "Listen!"

His voice immediately silenced all others. The nearest Indians drew back, their eyes wide. Children scampered away to hide behind the legs of their mothers, and even the fiercest-looking braves stood motionless at the sound of a white man's tongue.

"Where's my friend?" Matthew called out. "
Ecouter
!
Ou es't
mon ami
?" He got no answer. He looked around at the staring faces. "Does anyone here speak
English
?" he demanded, as frustration got the better of him.

The silence stretched. And then from the back of the crowd came a single high-pitched voice chattering something that sounded like
ha aka nu eeeegish
!

In the next instant the place erupted into a storm of hilarity, and the laughter that burst forth might have lifted the roof up and whirled it away had it not been so securely fixed.

In this tumult of noise Matthew knew he was being mocked, that no one here spoke either English or French, and while he was standing at the center of a joke Greathouse was likely dying. Courage or not, tears sprang to his eyes, and as the Indians began to dance and caper around him and their laughter soared up with the smoke Matthew feared all was lost.

Stop it!" Matthew shouted, as the merry carnival of Indians continued to careen around him. His face reddened with anger. He knew a little of the Dutch language from his work as a magistrate's clerk, so in desperation he tried that as well: "
Einde het
!"

It made no difference, but only brought forth a fresh uproar of laughter. A brave of diminutive size suddenly leaped out of the throng and landed to Matthew's left, and as this buckskinned comedian began to swell up his cheeks and hop about while emulating the deep croaking of a bullfrog Matthew thought the audience was going to holler the place down on their heads. Such croaking, Matthew reasoned, must be what the white man's language sounded like to their ears. At any other time he might have found this of interest, but right now it was just maddening.

In the midst of all this, Matthew was aware of an approaching figure. He was aware of it for the reason that the mob was parting to let this figure through, and where the mob did not part quickly enough a pair of big hands found purchase and threw Indians left and right. Then a kick was given to the butt of the human bullfrog that launched him toward the nearest lilypad, and a massive buckskin-dressed woman with long gray-streaked hair and necklaces of animal teeth around her throat stood with her hands on her hips, glowering at Matthew. He had no idea what was about to happen, but in spite of what he really wanted to do—which was fall to his knees and beg for mercy—he stood his ground and even managed to thrust out his chin in an actor's show of defiance.

The big woman looked him over from head to feet, made a noise deep in her throat like a bear's grumble, and then turned upon the crowd. If anyone were still laughing and shouting, her voice in the next instant made certain all other mouths were shut. Matthew thought this woman could knock a door down by hollering at it. The other Indians simply shut up, and some of the young braves even plopped themselves on the ground in a display of obedience, their heads and shoulders bent forward as if the woman's words were whipstrikes. Matthew had no earthly idea what she was saying, but it was clear she was lighting the devil's own fire in their earholes. If anyone moved during this tirade, her black eyes found them and the offender shrank back like a trembling dog.

When she was done browbeating her own people, she turned her attention to Matthew again and just stared at him as if to crumble him to dust. After a length of time in which he failed to disintegrate, the woman shouted out what was obviously a command of some kind, for here came forward a fearsome-looking brave decorated with jagged red and blue tattoos on his cheeks, chin, arms and legs. The man got right up into Matthew's face, said, "E'glish folla," and turned around to walk out. Matthew did exactly as he was told, having to pass by the large Indian woman who made a noise like spit sizzling in a frypan, which he presumed summed up her opinion of himself and his countrymen.

Outside, another mass of Indians waited for him, along with their animals. Shouts and what might only be termed catcalls started up, but were quickly stopped by his escort, who began to give them as much a tirade as the woman had delivered, and this one punctuated by slaps to his own chest and the pounding of his fist against his palm. Whatever was said, it was delivered with authority, for no sooner had the brave finished speaking did everyone turn away and go about their regular business as if Matthew had suddenly ceased to exist. "Folla, folla!" the brave told him, and motioned him on. Matthew went like a ghost through the village. He caught the eyes of a few children and young women examining him, and a brown dog ran up barking furiously until the brave hollered out and a small boy scurried over to clamp his hand over the dog's muzzle, but otherwise Matthew's progress was undisturbed.

It was a huge place, containing one longhouse after another. Matthew counted thirty-four of them, of varying sizes. He figured the largest few might each house a hundred Indians. Women were busy caring for infants and young children, and there were shed-like structures where men were working at such tasks as building birch-bark canoes, chopping wood, and sharpening knives and spearheads. In fact, the industry he saw around him—the weaving of baskets and blankets, the molding of clay pots and the scraping of animal skins stretched taut in wooden frames—and the sheer number of villagers made Matthew think this must be the tribe's New York. Toward the rear of the village, the back wall was open to reveal a large lake that might have been part of the Raritan river system, and alongside it a cornfield, an orchard on the hillside and other rows of vegetable fields. Truly, it was a world unto itself. "My friend," Matthew said to his escort, who walked briskly ahead. "The man who was hurt. Where is he?"

No answer was offered, therefore Matthew had to be satisfied with silence. At length they came to a smaller bark-covered dwelling set off by itself near what Matthew thought must be the village's eastern wall, and here the brave planted his palm in the air in a motion that Matthew took to mean
stand still
. A little knot of children who'd been following at a distance crept forward a few more yards and then also stood still, watching intently. The brave shouted something in his language toward the dwelling's doorway, which was covered with a deerskin. Smoke was rising from the hole on the roof, indicating that someone was home, but no one emerged. The brave picked up a long stick from the ground, edged forward close enough to pull the deerskin aside with the stick, and then repeated his shout, which sounded not unlike a rough command.

Abruptly a brown hand shot out, grasped the stick and wrenched it away from the brave, causing the man and the group of children to turn around and flee as if they'd seen the hand of the Devil emerge from that dark interior. Matthew's first desire was also to run, but he stood by himself, waiting, as he'd already met Satan this day and a lesser devil was no match for Slaughter.

An Indian came out from behind the deerskin, and stared at Matthew with eyes like pieces of black flint. He was about as tall as Matthew, and maybe only three or four years older, though age was hard to determine among native people. He was bald but for a scalplock, in their fashion, yet he wore neither feathers nor that cap-like head covering Matthew had seen some of the others wearing. He bore no tattoos on his face, but his neck and bare chest under an open buckskin waistcoat were well-marked with blue scratches and scribblings that looked more like self-inflicted torture than any kind of symbolism. On his arms at wrists and just above the elbows were blue tattooed rings. He was slimly-built, even on the gaunt side, for every rib showed and there was a troubled darkness around his eyes. He wore the customary loincloth, leggings and moccasins, and around his neck hung a small carved wooden totem of some kind on a leather cord. It appeared to Matthew to be the representation of a man with two heads.

The Indian cast his gaze in the direction the others had gone. His profile was hawklike, his face high-cheekboned and his expression sullen. Then he regarded Matthew once more, and he said in a clear voice, "English."

"Yes!" Matthew was relieved to hear the word spoken almost as if by a native of New York.

"Are you what all the noise is about?"

"I am. My friend's been hurt. Can you help me find him?"

"Is he
here
?"

"Yes, but where I don't know."

"Hm," the man said. His black eyebrows lifted. "Hurt
how
?"

"Stabbed. In the back."

"Your hands." The Indian motioned with his stick. "They don't look too good."

"It's my friend I'm worried about," Matthew replied.

"Then, he must be a true friend, because I would imagine you are in some pain. What happened?"

"Never mind that. I just want to know where he is. His name's Hudson Greathouse."

"All right." The Indian nodded. "If he's here, he'll be with the medicine sisters."

"Take me there."

"No," came the reply, "I will not. The medicine sisters don't like to be bothered when they're working," he explained to his visitor's look of dismay. "It's best to leave them alone. Do you have a name?"

"Matthew Corbett."

"Do you wish to come into my house and have some tea, Matthew Corbett?"

"
Tea
?"

"A nasty habit I picked up in London," said the Indian. He tossed the stick back to the ground and pulled the deerskin aside. "Come in. It's poor manners to refuse a formal invitation." He waited as Matthew tried to decide what kind of bizarre dream he was having, and how soon he might awaken from it. Matthew was beginning to be aware of all the pain that was flooding in upon him, from rope-burned hands and stone-slashed feet. His bruised left shoulder felt like a dead weight. Among these sensations was an overwhelming weariness, coupled with a forlorn grief. If not for him, Greathouse would not be dying, or already dead. If not for him, Slaughter would not have been set loose, and this might have been the worst of it. But he had to lay that aside now and put his attention on the moment, for that was how he had to survive what was ahead.

"Thank you," Matthew said, and he walked into the Indian's shelter.

Inside, the small bits of wood in the central firepit burned low. Arranged around the dwelling were items of everyday life: a sleeping pallet, a wooden rack holding blankets, animal skins and some items of clothing, a few wooden bowls and clay drinking cups, a bark water pail and other necessities. Matthew took note of several spears, two bows and a quiver of arrows leaning against a wall. The man would have to be a hunter, certainly, or he could not survive. But why was he living alone here, with no evidence of a wife and children?

Matthew's question was answered, in a way, when the Indian sat down cross-legged before the fire, poured some black liquid from a wooden pot into two small clay cups, and asked in a quiet voice, "You're not afraid of insanity, are you?"

"Pardon?"

"Insanity," said the Indian. "I am insane."

"No," Matthew answered, if a bit warily. "I'm not afraid."

"Ah, that's good, then." One of the cups was offered, and Matthew accepted it. "Everyone else here is afraid. That's why I'm an . . . " He paused, his high forehead creasing as he searched for a word. "Outcast," he went on. "Or nearly so. It won't be very long before I am, because I'm getting worse. Go ahead, drink. As they say in your land,
cheer up
." He lifted the cup in semblance of a toast, then put it to his lips and downed the liquid.

Matthew also drank, but before he got more than a swallow down his throat he thought his knees might give way, for though it was certainly English tea it was the strongest, most bitter brew he'd ever dared to imbibe. He thought there must be some fishheads and bear balls in this drink. He coughed and sputtered, his eyes shot forth tears, and he held the offending cup almost at arm's-length.

"No sugar, I'm sorry," said the Indian. "Isn't it suitable?"

Matthew coughed again, explosively. Still, for all the bitter taste, he felt a little charge course through his veins, as if one ingredient of this particular tea might be gunpowder. He said hoarsely, "It's all right."

"I trade for it at the post in Belvedere." The Indian poured another cup and drank from it. "Is it what you recall from your land?"

"I was born here," Matthew said, when he could trust his tongue again.

"Ah. So I was. We might as well be brothers, shouldn't we?"

Matthew didn't know how to respond to that, so he took another small sip of the furniture polish. "What's your name?" he asked.

The Indian spoke something that sounded like a ghostly wind blowing through a winter forest. "In your language," he said, "that would be Walker In Two Worlds."