The Spirit Keeper (24 page)

He was puzzled. I counted my fingers again. I counted the stones. I counted some sticks. I counted some leaves. Hector finally got it, telling me the words in his language as I counted. I repeated his words, but once we got to ten, the numbers became mere equations—eleven was ten-one, twelve was ten-two, and so on. There were new words for twenty, thirty, forty, etc., but the term for one hundred was simply “ten-ten.” All words beyond that were mere sums of previous numbers.

I frowned, frustrated. Somehow I needed to get Hector to understand a much larger number. I went to the river to gather more pebbles and rocks. I made ten piles of ten, counting each pebble with the words he had given me. He watched closely, curious. When I reached one hundred, I gestured at all the rocks and said “ten-ten” in his language. Hector nodded. I took a bigger rock and gestured to the ten piles of pebbles. “Ten-ten!” I said again, referring to the larger rock. He nodded again.

I collected ten of the larger rocks and lined them up before him. “
Ten
ten-ten!” I said. “That’s how many canoes the Greeks sent to Troy!” Hector’s eyebrows shot up. I went on to explain the Greek canoes were much, much larger than ours, each holding more than “ten-ten” warriors. “Ten-ten warriors in
ten
ten-ten canoes!” I said, pushing all my pebbles into one pile with the ten larger rocks. “That’s ten-ten, ten-ten-ten men!”

I lost him. He looked amused as he stared at the rock piles. “No village could gather that many warriors!” he said, clearly convinced I was exaggerating.

I sighed and held my chin on my hand as I stared into the fire. “This war happened many, many years ago,” I said quietly. “Maybe
five
ten-ten-ten years ago. There are many, many more men in that land now. Many, many more. And there are many, many other lands in that world, each with many, many, many more men than that. They are like leaves on the trees, Hector. They are like stars in the sky.”

Our eyes met and held for a moment. Syawa’s words echoed in my brain, and I had to look away to keep Hector from seeing my tears. He could not understand why I was suddenly upset, but he could see that I was. “That is enough,” he said, trying to make light of it. “You need not talk to me if it is too hard to make me understand. I am not smart, like you.”

“Oh, Hector—the fault is mine, not yours. I just . . . I remember something . . . something
he
told me. But I want talk—I
need
talk.”

Hector nodded, managing a feeble smile. “Talk more tomorrow, then. For now, I leave you to your memories.”

 • • •

For many evenings thereafter I plodded through the tale of the Trojan War, explaining how the Trojan Hector held off the massive Greek force for nine long years, and how his name became synonymous with loyalty, courage, and steadfastness e’en in the face of certain defeat. I hesitated to tell the end of the Trojan’s story for fear the ignominious death he suffered might offend the man I called Hector, but my fears proved unfounded. My Hector concluded Achilles had an unfair advantage and was, therefore, not an honorable warrior. He also thought the mutilation of the Trojan’s body, tho’ shameful, was the sort of thing men do in war, which was why war was best avoided, and, of course, he was glad to hear Achilles eventually paid for his deeds.

All in all, the story was the perfect ice-breaker, not only because it forced Hector to teach me many new words and phrases, but also because it gave us something to talk about that wasn’t charged with painful personal emotions. Knowing I must speak his language in order to learn it, I was delighted I’d finally found a way to get him to talk with me. But the best part of telling this story came when, after weeks of my halting, garbled delivery, my companion sat staring into the fire, nodding thoughtfully, and after a long pause he said he guessed he didn’t mind if I called him Hector.

 • • •

The day after I finished telling the tale of the Trojan War, my monthly returned and, once again, we camped in silence.

Hector and I worked on our separate tasks, near one another but entirely alone. I don’t know how things seemed to him, but for me, at least, the silence felt very different than it did the previous month. It was less strained, less miserable. As I sat sewing, I marveled how quickly time passed—it was already six weeks since Syawa died. I mourned the steady passage of days pulling me farther and farther away from him. Six weeks gone—and the total time of my life with him not twice that. Yet those precious days had changed everything for me, and the six weeks since . . . well, I assumed that e’en if I lived to be a hundred, I would still be trying to figure out exactly what happened during those glorious days I spent with the Seer.

Shortly after my monthly we came to a place where the river looped in an enormous oxbow. To paddle the loop, Hector explained, would consume more than a day, time we could save by carrying the canoe o’er land. He steered our craft to the shore.

By this time my arms and shoulders were strong, but the canoe, filled with our things, was heavy. On the other hand, I had long since decided not to argue with Hector if I could help it, so we got out and began lugging our load o’er a well-trodden path. ’Twas not an easy haul for me, as we walked for a couple of hours, the land sloping steadily upwards the whole way. I tried to keep a steady pace, but before we were done I was calling for a rest every few minutes. I knew the frequent stops were frustrating Hector, but, to his great credit, he said not a word.

During one of our breaks, I saw a flock of ducks in a marshy area, sitting on a grassy hillock, watching us walk by. “Look!” I said, hoping to distract Hector from my repeated need to rest. “Those ducks are like the ones Coyote tricked when he was carrying his grass bundle. They watch us now as they watched him. Shall we sing for them, to see if they’ll dance?”

Hector half-smiled at the ducks, and I silently congratulated myself for having gotten a response from him. Then he picked up the front of the canoe and I stooped to pick up the rear.

Suddenly he stopt and dropt the canoe, nearly jerking me off my feet. I dropt my end as well, assuming he must’ve stumbled, but he had turned and was staring at me with a very peculiar look on his face. “How do you know about Coyote and the ducks?” he asked in a strained voice.

I reflected. “
He
told that story—remember?”

“I remember exactly when he told that story, the only time he told that story in your hearing. It was right after we found you, when we were with your family on our way to the warriors’ village.”

I lifted my face, remembering. “I think you are right. That was when I heard it.”

Hector stared at me, his eyes frightened. “But you could not speak then! You could not understand our words. Do you share his memories?”

I looked down at the rocky pathway, inhaling slowly and deeply. I shrugged as I looked sheepishly up at him. “I . . . I dream of him. Every single night since . . . well. I dream it all over and over—every gesture, every word. That’s how I know the story. He tells it in my head.”

After studying me with narrowed eyes, Hector nodded curtly and turned to pick up the canoe. I did the same, feeling a huge wave of guilt. I knew he was interpreting my knowledge of this story as further proof I was Syawa’s Spirit Keeper, but to me it was merely evidence that I was mentally unstable, fanatically obsessed with a dead man. Either way, this was not a conversation I was eager to pursue.

But later, after we had eaten one of those nosy ducks and Hector was unrolling his sleeping fur, he suddenly turned to me. Because Hector ne’er initiated a conversation unless he had some vital information to convey, I stopt poking the fire to look at him expectantly. He seemed reluctant to speak. He forced himself. “Will you talk with him tonight, do you think?”

I shrugged, blushing scarlet. “I always do,” I said quietly.

Hector nodded, his eyes averted. “Will you tell him . . .” he said haltingly, “will you tell him I’m grateful?” His voice broke on the last word.

I knew it would bother Hector for me to cry, so I tried very hard to hold back the tears. “Yes, I will tell him,” I said in a shaky voice.

Hector nodded again and rolled himself into his fur, his back to me. I tried to cry quietly as I built up the fire, but I’m sure he heard me. I could tell by his breathing he didn’t fall asleep for a long, long time.

Thereafter Hector seemed calmer somehow, less tense, more comfortable with me. When he had a chance to catch another duck the very next evening, he did so, saying I’d done such a fine job of cooking the first one, he was hungry for more.

Stunned by the compliment, I plucked the new duck happily as I explained my family always kept birds—ducks, chickens, turkeys—so I had plenty of experience cooking them.

Hector wasn’t sure how my family could keep birds the way Indians keep dogs. “Do they follow you in day and sleep with you at night?” he asked, trying not to smile.

“No!” I giggled, then went on to explain about pens and roosts. He was interested to learn we had a steady supply of eggs, intrigued by the notion we could butcher and eat a bird whene’er we wanted, without hunting. I then told him about a pet chicken I had when we lived in Boston—a pretty white hen I called Fluffy.

“You gave a bird a name?” he asked, unable to suppress his smile any longer.

“Oh, yes!” With him supplying any words I needed, I told all about Fluffy—how she hatched eggs for other hens, and how cute the chicks were when they peeked out from under her. When Hector chuckled at my pantomimes, I jumped up and acted out my mother’s favorite way of killing a bird—grabbing it by the legs, flopping its head on the ground, putting her foot on the head, and yanking the body off. I acted out what happened one day when she killed a dozen birds to sell at market—pop, pop, pop, pop. Each time she threw a body down, it got up and ran ’round so that our garden was full of headless birds running into each other, their wings flapping frantically. Finally, one by one, they stopt and stood still for a moment, as if surprised to realize they were dead. Then they fell over.

As I ran ’round our fire acting out this scene, Hector laughed more than I have e’er heard anyone laugh about anything. He laughed so hard I thought he would choke; he laughed ’til tears rolled down his cheeks. I laughed with him, working the story for all it was worth, well aware that this was the first time I had heard him laugh since Syawa died. What a joy it was to see him as something other than angry, gloomy, or sad!

Later, when he was unrolling his bedding, he glanced at me, still smiling. “You have learnt how to talk,” he said, clearly pleased.

I nodded, ready to thank him for all his help, but before I could, he spoke again. “It is good he is teaching you in your sleep.” I drew in my breath, but Hector was still smiling. He lay down, enwrapping himself in his fur.

I sighed. All this time Hector had been teaching me to talk, but now he was giving the credit to his dead friend and there was naught I could say to convince him otherwise.

I sighed again.

~22~

A
BOUT THIS TIME
the Misery turned north, and on one side of that turn was the largest village since the Great River. As we walked up from the riverbank, I felt again the familiar discomfort at being surrounded by so many gawking strangers, but this time, with Hector walking beside me, I no longer felt so vulnerable, so alone. He had fastened some duck feathers in his hacked-off hair, and the bright colors emphasized his strikingly handsome features, which helped draw attention away from the wonder of my red hair, white skin, and blue eyes. For that I was grateful.

At this village, as always, we were warmly received, and tho’ we were forced to endure, once again, the public outpouring of sympathy that always accompanied the discovery of Syawa’s death, Hector and I had endured it so many times we no longer wilted beneath this public sharing of our very private pain. In fact, when the keening began at the Big Bend village, I remember exchanging a glance with Hector for just a fraction of a second before we bowed our heads, and I felt a bond I’d ne’er felt before. It wasn’t just
my
sorrow anymore—it was
ours
. And that’s when a strange thing happened.

I discovered the grief did not hurt so much when it was no longer mine alone.

Later, as the local speaker wrapt up our introduction, I remember exchanging another glance with Hector. This time I felt a wave of encouragement, support, and trust. I had long since vowed ne’er to let him down the way I did at the Trade Center. Knowing him as I did now, I understood Syawa was the storyteller and all along Hector participated in the performances in much the same way I participated in swimming; it was simply something he had to do.

By the time we reached the Big Bend, I was getting the hang of this storytelling business. I knew enough now to wait under a cloak whilst Hector gestured the summary of Syawa’s Vision, their Journey, and their arrival at my family’s house. I waited as he acted out his death-struggle with the bald savage, and I waited as he showed how he and Syawa slowly climbed the stairs. Then I jumped up, pretending to point a weapon at him as he pretended to point his bloody knife at me. The crowd always gasped when I appeared.

It was at the Big Bend village that Hector and I truly connected during that critical moment in our tale. Our eyes locked and I felt again all those feelings of terror and despair, but I also felt all the trust and affection we had built in the ensuing months. It was a strange sensation, to feel so many diametrically opposed emotions at exactly the same time. I remember sort of smiling at him as we stood brandishing our imaginary weapons, and I remember seeing him sort of smile back at me in the exact same way. There was a new unity between us, an interdependence I’d ne’er experienced. We had become a true team, two oxen working together to haul a heavy load.

I went on to tell the rest of the story. The audience listened with rapt attention as I described hiking the eastern forest, learning to live in the wild. To them, I must have seemed some sort of other-worldly creature who dropt out of the sky and must learn to be human, and, to some degree, I suppose that’s exactly what I was. When I got to the part where the Seer was bitten and the canoe went spinning off into the river, I screamed and spun ’round the fire as Hector pantomimed swimming after me. We made several circuits, during which the crowd went wild, roaring for him to save me, which, of course, he always did.