The Spirit Keeper (2 page)

After Gran died, I oft dreamt of running away to the Old World and living amongst the castles and cathedrals, but I had no means to achieve such a purpose. Instead, once my monthlies were establisht, my parents bade me follow in the footsteps of my sisters and find a husband who could save them the trouble of providing for me. The very suggestion made me shudder. Having been ill-used by men in the past, I desired no further dalliance, and e’en if I could stomach the notion of being pawed and slobbered o’er by a grunting lout, the pickings were slim in our remote community. My father spoke of wedding me off to a backwoodsman, in hopes of expanding trade opportunities for himself, but the fellow was ’round too rarely for arrangements to be made. My mother was much more interested in the bid offered by an innkeeper downriver who required a new wife to share the household burdens of his daughters, both of whom were older than I.

Determined not to be enslaved at a frontier trading post for the rest of my days, I tucked my few possessions into a leather bag, strapt a wool blanket beneath, hid this bundle under one of the beds in the loft, and prepared to run for Philadelphia upon the spring thaw. But before I could accomplish my flight, the children and I heard the aforementioned scream, and the long-feared Indian attack was under way.

Through the crackt shutter of the loft, I saw a savage knock my father on the head with a stone club and fall upon him to rip off his ragged scalp. I had not a moment to mourn because I could hear my mother and sisters struggling to secure the doors and windows down below. Encouraged thus to prepare my own defense, I latcht the shutter and snatcht the boys’ musket from its hook. The weapon was useless, being old and missing several mechanisms, but I hoped it might serve ’til I could find something better. I then reached under the bed for my pack, but e’en as I drew the leather strap ’round my head and shoulder, I heard thuds from down below—wood splintering, screams, and scuffling. When whimpering children crowded ’round me, I pushed them into the darkest corner, hissing at them to be absolutely still or they would surely die. All grew quiet below as everyone was dragged outside. A long moment passed before we heard another round of scuffling, a muffled cry, another thud. The children and I waited and waited in breathless silence.

Then we heard the creak of a riser on the stairs.

I raised the musket to my shoulder as I had seen the boys do a hundred times, but my trembling disallowed me to hold the barrel steady. A shadow at the top of the stairs became a savage slowly rising into the ray of light from a crack in the shutter. He appeared to be about my age, and the fact that he was nigh naked unsettled me, but the thing that drew and held my eye was the long, sharp stone blade he held in his hand. It was dripping red with blood.

When the savage saw my musket pointed at his bare chest, he stopt cold and said something rapidly to someone behind him. His black eyes shifted from the gun to my face. He glared at me as I stared at him along the wavering barrel of the weapon.

I know not what I would have done had the savaged lunged at me, but before he could, his companion on the stairs pushed up beside him and lightly touched the hand holding the menacing knife. This second savage, more than a full head shorter than the first and perhaps a bit older, spoke with an urgency that surprised both me and my attacker. The first heathen lowered his blade, looking at his shorter companion in shock, and for a moment the children and I were forgotten as the Indians gabbled at one another in their strange tongue. Finally they both turned their eyes to me.

The short one smiled.

He spoke to me then, still smiling, as if trying to explain something very important. Of course I understood naught, so I just scowled at him, pretending I was about to shoot. The short savage extended his hand, causing me to take a step backwards. In doing so, I stumbled on a child’s foot and would have fallen had not the short savage leapt to grab my arm. At that, the taller one shouted and the children screamed, but rather than molesting me in any way, the short savage was trying only to preserve me. His friend reached for my gun, but the short man stopped him with a sharp word. He then asked me something, but I was so distracted by his touch, his closeness, and his uncanny smile that the only thing I could comprehend at that moment was that I was very likely to be very dead very soon.

The short Indian released my arm and repeated his question, his breath hot upon my cheek. I looked into his dark eyes, mere inches from mine. I wanted to tell him I could not understand him, but I could not for the life of me remember how to talk. I could scarce remember how to breathe. As if in a dream, I tipt up the barrel of the musket and held it out, hoping this would move him off me. He did step back, but only because his companion grabbed the gun. The taller heathen examined the musket, smelled it, and looked at me with a flash of vexation. He said something as he tossed the weapon aside, clearly telling his companion the gun was useless. At that, the short savage actually laughed. He turned back to me and grinned—a broad, bright, thoroughly irresistible grin. He held out his hand.

I took it.

And that is the account, as true as I can tell the tale, of how I came to be a captive of the Indians.

~2~

A
S TO THE EVENTS
during and after the time the children and I were removed from the loft and escorted through the farmyard, my memory is mostly darkness and terror. I clearly remember stepping o’er the body of a beastly looking savage at the bottom of the stairs, his red blood pooling across the floorboards. Outside was mayhem and I believe my two escorts were hard-presst to protect me from the madness and murder taking place all ’round.

I have an all-too-vivid memory of my brother Thomas attempting to douse the fire an arrow had establisht in a hay pile by the barn. Tom struck down every savage who beset him, swatting them aside like bothersome bees at a picnic. E’en when a flying tomahawk finally knockt him into the fire, he continued flailing, trying to put out the flames. To no avail. His clothes caught fire and soon his twitching body helpt to feed the very flames he had been trying to extinguish. As the inferno rose to engulf the barn and flames shot thirty or forty feet in the air, I could hear Tom’s wife and children shrieking from their hiding place in the loft.

In the meantime, my captors directed me to sit beside the well, where my mother and sister Eliza huddled beside my fifteen-year-old brother William, who had been knockt in the head but was not dead. A few of Liza’s children were there, tho’ I do not recall now if they were some who came with me. I do know some of the children who had been in the loft ran off as soon as we stept outside, and at least one was grabbed by a savage and had his brains dasht out against a tree. But the fate of most of my family members will forever be unknown to me.

Tho’ the particulars of my removal are vague now, I distinctly recall my two captors making it abundantly clear to their comrades-in-arms that I belonged to them and was not to be molested in any way. Whilst they suffered me to be tied with a leather strap to my sister and mother, they permitted no one to push or prod me. My brother William, wounded as he was with a great gash on his head, was forced to carry a large load of goods looted from our farm, as were both Liza and my poor mother. But I carried naught save my own pack.

I saw immediately how unlike the others were the two men who had taken me from the loft. The few Indians I had seen heretofore were uniformly savage and vile, with heads plucked bald save for a tuft atop, and odd bones and stones woven through ears or noses or lips. Most were tattooed or painted with garish designs, and all savages I had e’er seen were capable of understanding English if they did not, in fact, speak it as well as me. But the two who laid claim to me not only understood no English but clearly did not speak the same language as the others. They communicated with the main body of marauders only through an elaborate language of gestures, accompanied by grunts, groans, and a wide range of facial expressions.

Whilst we captives were marched through the woods like prize cattle, my two guardians remained always at my side. I quickly noted their peculiarities. Tho’ they, like all the savages, wore only breechclouts, they carried large packs which the others did not. Their skin was several shades darker than the others, neither wore paint (tho’ the short one did have a small tattoo on the side of his face), and both wore their long black hair in a single braid down their backs. E’en at a glance I could see the muscles of their arms, shoulders, and backs bulged disproportionately, making them appear top-heavy. Their faces were wider, rounder, plumper, and, in short, everything about them was quite unlike the others. As we stumbled through the forest, I passed many silent hours wondering about these two odd fellows—who they were, where they came from, and why they had taken such a particular interest in me.

Because there was no doubt about it. My mother and sister, bound to me at the wrist, immediately saw my situation. At first Mother hoped we might benefit from the keen interest, and it was certainly true I wanted for nothing. But when I tried to share the choice bits of food my guardians gave me, they intervened, making clear my family members were dependent upon the goodwill of the other savages. As the other savages were a monstrous bunch, my relatives suffered and blamed me for it.

I remember my sister questioning me about what happened in the loft and how it came to be I had time to gather provisions. I did not want to reveal I had long hoped to run away, but when I failed to explain my preparedness, she accused me of somehow knowing my captors and scheming with them to plan this event, which was such a bizarre accusation I could find no words to respond. William dismissed the idea as absurd and told Liza to stop lashing out.

Still, the intense favoritism of my guardians did little to dispel my sister’s jealousy and suspicions, and because I myself did not understand their interest, I suffered a great unease as the short savage worked to win me over. On the first night after our remove, for example, when Mother snatcht my wool blanket, the short man shyly offered me his thick bearskin. I was, quite naturally, terrified of what he might expect in exchange for this kindness, but his gentle smile and my violent shivering eventually persuaded me. I wrapt myself in the thick fur, grimly awaiting ravishment, but the short savage only smiled as he lay nearby under a thin hide. Oddly, I found I slept more soundly, knowing my peculiar protector was attending me thus. When I awoke in the morning, his smile was the first thing I saw, and after the first few mornings I could not help but greet him with a smile of my own.

I should note I was not the only captive being pampered. Three children were with us, two of whom were Liza’s sons, and none were bound. Instead, certain savages claimed them, and tho’ at first the youngsters naturally clung to us, as the days passed they, like me, became more comfortable in the company of their new masters. William, who understood some of the language, said the savages debated which of us they would adopt and which they would take to a French outpost for exchange.

In the two years since moving to the frontier, we had all heard tales of what happened to Christians held by the cruel and barbarous heathens—tales of torture and torments that ended in being roasted alive. As relieved as I was to hear I was not fated for the firepit, I was naturally alarmed by this unexpected alteration in my fortunes. I had ne’er enjoyed living in the wild, and had, in fact, been planning to escape it as soon as practicable, yet here I was being dragged e’er farther into the demon darkness, faced with the very real possibility of ne’er seeing the light of civilization again. But, as Gran always sighed, mere mortals must bow before God’s Will.

After several days of hiking, I began to fear the special treatment I was receiving might bode particularly ill for me. One evening the short savage, smiling as always, sat down beside me so that we might eat our meal together, and Liza eyed the tender fish he gave me whilst she and the rest had naught but tough strips of dried sinew. “Y’best be careful about enticing your new beau, Katie,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “He’ll make ye pay for that fish!”

I stopt in mid-chew. Tho’, as my mother delighted in assuring me, no one could e’er consider me pretty, I was not unacquainted with the amorous advances of young men. Throughout my youth I made friends with whate’er boys lived near us, and more than one had declared his love for me, regardless of my ruddy complexion and crooked teeth. So tho’ I knew Liza’s spiteful jibe was prompted mostly by the considerations I was receiving, I also knew that what she said had more than a grain of truth to it.

I was, of course, doing nothing to “entice” the short savage, yet clearly he
was
enticed by one particular part of me—my hair. Like my mother and several siblings, I had what they called “good Irish hair”—thick, curly, and red as a flame. The more I thought about it, the more I realized the short savage had been talking to his companion about my hair e’en when we were in the loft. Every morning he watched in open fascination as I retied my hair in a bun, and once whilst I braided my hair for sleeping, he reached out to take one of my curls in his hand, holding it as if it were a tiny bird he’d found fallen from a tree. When I pulled away in alarm, he withdrew his hand, smiling sheepishly.

I found this most unsettling. After all, the savages are known to be peculiar when it comes to hair, plucking their own heads clean or torturing their locks into bizarre coifs, ornamented with feathers and bones. It goes without saying the heathens are notorious for collecting human scalps, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my short friend’s broad smile was prompted by picturing my bright red locks as the prized centerpiece of his personal scalp collection.

But e’en as the thought occurred to me, I knew it could not be true. Whilst I fully believed his taller companion was capable of murder, I knew in my heart this short fellow was far too gentle to be plotting evil against me.