The Spirit Keeper (20 page)

On the first night after Syawa died, we did have one brief conversation. Rather than set up our lean-to as Syawa had done, Hector made a shelter by pulling the canoe far up the bank, rolling it onto its side, and bracing it with the paddles. After we ate, I began unrolling my bearskin under the canoe, eager to rest my weary muscles, but Hector stopt me.

“You slept last night,” he said bluntly, “and I did not. Tonight you must watch first. I will get up halfway through the night. Then you can sleep.”

I was astonished. “Must one of us always be awake?”

“One of us always has been awake,” he said as he spread his own sleeping fur under the canoe. “You are the only one who has slept all night every night.” He rolled himself into his fur.

“But . . . but what I watch
for
?” I asked, suddenly very aware of the vast darkness surrounding our tiny circle of light.

“Bears, panthers, wolves,” Hector mumbled from within his fur. “People who might harm us. If anything threatens our camp, wake me.”

As Hector’s breathing slowed immediately into sleep, I looked at the vast darkness with wide eyes. All this time Syawa and Hector had been taking turns watching o’er me, and I didn’t e’en know it, nor did it occur to me such watchfulness was required. Once again, I felt like a fool. I crawled to Hector’s pile of belongings to pull out the French hatchet. I clutched that hatchet to my chest for hours, jumping at every rustle in the darkness. I kept the fire well-stoked and kept myself company by crying.

I soon learnt I might as well stay awake half the night because when I did sleep, I did naught but dream of Syawa. Every time Hector poked me with a stick in the morning, which is how he woke me, I jerked upright, startled, torn from some deep, deep dream discussion with Syawa. I did not mention these nocturnal conversations to Hector because I did not mention anything to Hector, but they always stuck with me for a good part of the day, giving me much to think about as I paddled.

In spite of the comforting companionship of those dreams, I still broke into tears almost as regularly as that clock pendulum used to swing. Whilst we were paddling it did not matter that I cried, either because Hector did not notice or did not care, but in our camp he was discomforted by my regular breakdowns.

“Why are you crying?” I recall him asking one evening in exasperation.

Surprised I must explain why a woman with a broken heart cries, I tried to shrug, but my shoulders were so stiff and sore I couldn’t e’en do that. I whimpered that I was in pain and showed him how the blisters on my hands had popt and oozed, leaving my palms as little more than two huge, open sores.

“Does crying help?” he demanded.

I admitted that it didn’t, then cried all the more.

 • • •

I should mention at this point that tho’ I have perhaps made it sound as if Syawa, Hector, and I were alone in a vast, deserted wilderness, such was ne’er the case. The truth is we frequently encountered other people as we hiked through the forest, sometimes stopping to exchange information, sometimes merely acknowledging each other’s presence, and sometimes steering clear of others altogether. I have not mentioned this aspect of my travels primarily because I, myself, ne’er interacted with strangers and my thoughts were always so preoccupied with my own situation that I took little note of the predicaments of others.

Whilst Hector and I paddled up the Great River, however, we encountered other people almost constantly. The Great River, it seemed, was the main thoroughfare through the continent, and rare was the hour when we did not pass some habitation, campsite, or fellow canoeists. Hector sometimes had trouble finding a campsite not already occupied or situated so close to others as to make him uncomfortable.

In the past, of course, Syawa was the one to speak with strangers, whilst Hector hung back with his menacing scowl. Now it was up to Hector to respond to those who hailed us, and he did not accept this new responsibility with enthusiasm. At first he tried glaring and waving people off, but we were, after all, a very unusual pair, and everyone who saw us was naturally curious. Every single stranger stared, most chattered, and some e’en followed us, shouting repeatedly for us to stop. A few canoes pulled alongside us, the strangers interrogating Hector as they stared at me.

I ne’er got involved in these exchanges but thought Hector made things more difficult than need be. Whereas Syawa was always open and pleasant, perfectly willing to go into the whole story of his Vision, Hector tried to share as little information as possible and get away as quickly as he could. I knew the reason he didn’t want to talk was that he was loath to speak of the death of our friend, but I believe many people wondered what he was hiding.

One evening just at dusk three strangers appeared at our camp, asking if they could share our fire. I could see Hector despised the idea, but his savage commitment to hospitality precluded a refusal. I divided our supper five ways, using large leaves as plates, working silently, feeling as if Syawa was watching o’er my shoulder. I wanted to make him proud. After our meal I told the strangers my basic story in gestures, which they attended with great interest. They stopt me as soon as I told about the snake biting Syawa, because they could tell from Hector’s ragged hair and mass of shallow wounds how the story ended.

Hector took the first watch that night, then failed to wake me for my turn so that when morning came, I was well-rested and he was more irritable than ever.

We followed the men to their destination, which turned out to be our destination as well—a sizable Indian community on the east side of the Great River. For several miles we had passed numerous small settlements on either side of the river—sometimes a hut or two, sometimes a cluster of twenty or more. I e’en saw some wooden houses built in the Old World style. When our companions turned their large canoe to the eastern shore, I was surprised to see an actual dock, and tho’ I could not at first see much of the town itself because the terrain rose well away from the river, the fact that the bank was covered with dozens of canoes, rafts, and other boats suggested this place served as a trade center as much as a permanent town.

We reached the place just about noon. There was much shouting as we neared, as people were gathering on the high ridge to watch our approach. I was terribly self-conscious, but there was nothing I could do to stop attracting attention, so I just put my head down and paddled ’til the canoe bumped on the bank. When Hector jumped out to pull it out of the water, he caught my eye. “This will be very hard,” he warned quietly, his jaw clenched.

Before I could ask what he meant, I began to find out.

One of the men from the night before stood on the ridge and shouted something, then began to wail—a high-pitched keening that pierced the ears and echoed mournfully across the river valley. Others picked up the cry, and in a moment the air was vibrating with anguished howling. I looked at Hector, who was ashen, stricken, and trembling from head to toe. He fell to his knees in the mud as he, too, lifted his head and keened.

It was Syawa.

I immediately understood Syawa and Hector must have stopt here on their way eastward, as they stopt at other cities. The lamentation was in Syawa’s honor, and it swirled ’round like an endless whirlwind of human desolation. It roiled and rumbled from earth to sky and back again, with me and Hector in the middle, waiting for the horrible storm to pass.

Not knowing what to do, I knelt beside Hector with my head down, his words echoing in my head: “This will be very hard. This will be very hard.”

 • • •

My memory of the ensuing events is hazy, but I’m sure we were given food and lodging, as was always the custom. Immediately the inhabitants of this place began preparing for the typical Indian gathering, which included food, dance, and a recounting of our adventures. As the day wore on, more and more people arrived, and I could see Hector was immeasurably miserable, clearly dreading the evening e’en more than I. When I managed to ask him, at one point, what was expected of us, he just grumbled that I should know—we had done it before.

By evening the crowd had become a colossal mob, the likes of which I ne’er saw—not e’en in Philadelphia nor Boston. Whereas we had previously attracted a crowd of a couple hundred individuals, what I saw gathering on the encircling hillsides and in crafts on the river was a collection of as many as a thousand. I also saw numerous Europeans in the crowd, their fluffy beards, white linen shirts, and knee-length breeches offering a stark contrast to the mass of semi-naked savages. The Indians in this place came in every size, shape, color, and configuration. They settled ’round us like an ocean of people, yet maintained a respectful distance so that no one was closer than about thirty feet to the mat upon which Hector and I sat.

As usual, official speeches were made. One of the Europeans spoke—a Spaniard, I deduced, tho’ he spoke the local Indian tongue. Of course I understood nothing, and I believe Hector not only did not understand what was being said, but did not care. Tho’ he had painted himself, as usual, he sat near me in an unhappy daze, staring blankly into the fire.

Eventually some sort of Holyman had his say, and because he used the general language of gestures as well as his own tongue, I understood he was telling about the previous visit of the Seer from a Distant Land, about his Vision and Journey, and how the people here had wisht the travelers well. Tonight, the Holyman explained, the rest of the story would be told.

The crowd hushed. The silence spread from the center outward, ’til gradually all was still. Hector looked at me expectantly.

“What?” I asked him, astonished.

“The people want to know who you are and why you are here.”

“Well, tell them!” I hissed, wishing I could find a rock to crawl under.

“
You
must tell them!” Hector growled, his painted face frowning furiously. “Tell them now and be done with it!”

What was I supposed to say? That I was the thirteenth child my mother conceived, a bad-luck baby suckled on misery and weaned on despair, a misfit nothing of a nobody who died almost three months ago but didn’t e’en have enough sense to lie down and leave her wretched husk of rotting flesh?

I got up and walked forward on shaking legs. I stopt before the fire. I raised my hand above my head to get everyone’s attention and waited ’til all eyes were on me. And then the strangest thing happened. A log on the fire snapt, tumbled, and sent a great gust of sparks spiraling up into the night sky. Everyone gasped and trembled. I sighed, closed my eyes, and shook my head.

I gestured as big as I could so everyone could see: “The Seer was on Journey to fulfill his Vision. He was looking for a Creature of Fire and Ice. I am the One the Seer was seeking. I go now to his people to give them great gift. I have nothing more to say.”

A stunned silence followed as I turned ’round and walked back to the mat.

“You cannot stop now!” Hector gestured, appalled. “These people have been generous and kind. You cannot accept their hospitality and give nothing in return!”

“Tell them what you will. I am done.” I flopt down on the mat, my eyes on the ground.

Hector seethed, then got up to begin walking the open space ’round the fire, gesturing broadly as he filled in the details of our story. I did not watch too closely because, after all, I already knew the details of our story and because I was so horribly uncomfortable before that enormous crowd. As time passed, however, I became aware Hector was going on and on, sharing details I found irrelevant and strange. He told, for example, about my removing the splinter from Syawa’s hand and how the Seer had painted a symbol on my face with his blood. He told the crowd about my dreams of spinning and the snake and how both dreams came true. He told about my last kiss with Syawa—how I inhaled his final breath. He e’en told how hysterical I became when I saw the snake that killed him.

I was perplexed. Hector had told me I could not say Syawa’s name, but here he was, telling strangers every intimate detail of our friend’s final days. He may not have used Syawa’s name, but he sure was morbidly dwelling on each painful memory. I could stand it no longer. I got up and headed to the river.

The crowd parted, hushed and awed, as I walked by. I saw toddlers clutch their mothers’ legs, grown men stagger backwards in obvious fear. I lowered my head and tried not to look anymore, because the more I saw, the more hideously uneasy I became.

It was so hard to know what to do without Syawa.

I found our canoe in the midst of what seemed to be hundreds that were lying on the high bank. I sat beside it, leaning my cheek against it, taking comfort in the knowledge that Syawa had touched that wood, that he had used that canoe to come for me.

Time passed. I know not how much. All I remember is that at some point I was startled by a quiet voice beside me. It was a woman saying something I could not understand. When she saw my blank stare, she asked if I spoke French. I said I did.

“Your companion asked me to find you. You are welcome to sleep in my lodge.” The woman was clearly very nervous, but she smiled, trying to be friendly. I could see she had some quantity of European blood and wondered what her story was, who she was, and how she came to be there.

Ultimately I didn’t really care. I lowered my eyes and shook my head. “I’d rather stay here a while, if you please.”

The woman nodded, eager to be agreeable. She looked toward the village, then back at me a few times as if reluctant to fail in her mission to fetch me. Finally she decided to try a conversation. “I remember the Seer when he passed through last fall,” she offered. I said nothing, so she went on. “He was very nice, charming, sweet. I am sorry to hear he died.” When I continued to say nothing, she added, “Ah, but at least you are left with the handsome one, no?”

I looked up sharply. I had not hit anyone for a while, but I had an almost irresistible urge to smash my fist into this woman’s face.

“I mean no offense, because I know your loss is great,” she babbled on in panic, afraid of the way I now stared at her, “but surely you take consolation in the fact that you now have the best of both worlds—you travel with the handsome one while the Spirit of the Seer lives on inside you.”