Where the Dead Talk (26 page)

But not all.

Jude’s gaze turned to Elizabeth. She noticed and turned away. The wagon wound its way up through the low hills that rose up on the eastern side of the village. Beyond was the long stretch of woodland that separated West Bradhill from Boxford. An owl hooted off in the trees – and there was a sudden rush of voices up ahead.

"Christ," the Major said.

Jude cursed himself for a fool – he should have known. That owl hoot sounded a little too much like a person, too little like an owl.

"No further. Don’t move."

Men with muskets emerged from the trees that bounded the road. Jude counted a dozen muzzles pointed at them, some on Morrill on his horse. A company of militia quickly surrounded them, more stepping out on the road behind them. Further down the road, there were more men – a small artillery company with horses drawing four limbered cannon. One of the militia stepped up to the wagon, pointing a pistol. Several more of the muskets swung over to the wagon as men spotted the British uniform on Major Pomeroy.

"Who’s in charge?" the man with the pistol said, "and where are you headed?"

"Colonel Brewster here’s in charge," Morrill said. He pointed to Jude, and then at himself.

"And I’m Captain Zeke Morrill. West Bradhill militia."

The man with the pistol looked over the wagon and then back up at him.

"And what are –" the man started.

Thomas stood up in the back of the wagon.

"The King’s men attacked the village!" he said.

All heads turned to face him.

"A whole brigade," Thomas said. He was speaking loud and slow, as clear as he could. "And they came in and shot people, and they burned the church, and now they’re formed up and set up a camp next to the lake over here. They got prisoners – women and children."

Some of the militia passed a few words among themselves, looking as though the suggestion of a British presence had recently been tossed back and forth. The one with the pistol turned to the wagon.

"That right, Colonel?" he said.

Jude didn’t have time to think – he nodded his head.

"We were outnumbered," he said, "most of my company already headed to Boston – we were rounding up the rest when they came in. They sacked most of the town. Destroyed businesses, burned the church, killed the citizenry."

"I told you," one of the soldiers near the one with the pistol said.

The other one silenced him with a wave of the hand.

"What about him?" he said, pointing at the Major.

The Major lifted his hands. A pistol suddenly appeared in Jude's hand, pointed at him.

"Prisoner. One of their officers."

Thomas pointed at the Major.

"He knows where they are – he can lead us to them. We can surprise them," Thomas said. An angry murmur swept through the company of militia that were now crowding around the wagon.

A minute later, Morrill and Jude stood at the side of the road with Captain Silas Adams of the Portsmouth militia. The troops were forming up in the road, the artillery moving up from behind. A pair of soldiers kept their muskets trained on Major Pomeroy – who was now standing at the side of the road – while another pair moved the wagon with the women and children.

"We saw the smoke off over the hills and got a little more cautious," Adams. "I was worried that it might be the British – there'd been some talk of it on the roads. Our company leaders were down in Menotomy when the fighting broke out, sent a rider to us, telling us to form up and head south."

"We were as surprised as you, Captain Adams," Morrill said. "They’d driven their troops out under cover of darkness last night, riding and marching hard."

"And him?" he said, nodding his head in the direction of Major Pomeroy.

"Caught him at the tavern. Got separated from his men," Jude said.

"Get him over here," Adams said.

The men guarding him prodded him with their muskets and the Major limped over. All the militia eyes followed him. When he reached the officers, he looked up and down the line of men.

"More hayseed soldiers, I see," he said. "We'll make quick work of you, too."

We’re all in this, then, Jude realized, and playing our roles just so.

"How many men have you?" Adams said.

The Major smiled.

"More than enough to deal with the likes of you," he said.

The Captain gave him a flinty look, up and down.

"And is what the boy said true? Your brigade is bivouacking near here?"

Major Pomeroy gave him his haughtiest look.

"Precious little good you'll do against them. Your best bet would be to turn around and high-tail it off," he said. The Captain nodded, then motioned to one of his men.

"Tie his hands," he said, "he'll lead us there."

Echoes of the Prayers

The sunlight in the cabin deepened. Nashoonon stood in front of the table, looking at the objects. The stones. The blood mixture. He exhaled slowly. He held the wrapping of raven’s tongue, its pungent aroma driving up into his nose. None of it meant anything to him – one of the reasons he’d gone off. Thinking of the horror that the lake had become, he thought he should have stayed away; he could have just headed north. The thought had crossed his mind enough times to be an old friend. Just go, head north – better than watching the days and seasons and years go by with nothing but his aging uncle and his rituals. Better than listening to the complaints and heated talk of the English. Better than standing guard over a cold, deep lake in the middle of a silent corner of forest.

But the vision had drawn him back, the vision of Pannalancet in the form of a mountain cat, drenched in water. Staring at him, then slipping to the ground and closing his golden eyes. It had come to him every night, the same way. Nashoonon looked at the items on the table again, knowing that he couldn't run away now.

Wouldn't run away.

"What else?" he said. He lifted four of the slender leaves from the leather wrapping. They were already growing dry. He put the wrapping down and folded over the leaves, twice.

"Ash’ta toquwa h’otayah," he said.

He slipped the leaves under his tongue and grimaced at the bitterness. He sat down in the chair, face to the sun coming in the window. He closed his eyes. And waited.

The summer of his twelfth year, he’d prepared for his first vision ceremony. He worked at it for months, making practice trips in his mind to the other side – but poorly. He couldn’t concentrate, didn’t see things in his mind clearly. Often, he just lay there on the floor of his uncle’s cabin, thinking about fishing or riding a horse – or just begrudging his uncle for the beautiful afternoon that was being wasted lying on a dirt floor. When Pannalancet had finally decided he was ready – and Nashoonon sensed that it was with a resignation that real progress wouldn’t come in two or twenty more months – they’d prepared for his vision ceremony. Gathering the plants and making the brew, preparing the little shed, then singing songs and chanting around the fire.

He was sure that it was the plants.

His perceptions changed, alright. Colors leaped out and danced. His whole body tingled, shuddering in waves. When his uncle had finally led him into the shed, Nashoonon was already seeing spirits at the edge of the trees, whispering in tongues he didn’t recognize. They were the shades of the dead, made visible by the raven's-tongue. He was told to ignore them, which proved difficult. Pannalancet left him alone to take his first journey to the spirit world. When it was over, Pannalancet didn’t ask him any questions, telling him that his relationship with his vision spirit was his business now, in his own hands. That he was man enough to know now, to understand what he needed to do to nourish that relationship.

Which Nashoonon didn’t do.

The chant started coming out of the sun, it seemed. Nashoonon sat very still at the table, his tongue and cheeks growing numb from the strong plant. He stared at the sunlight on his hands, the long spidery shadows on the table. And he heard the words begin.

Osh toa’wha eh tawenta. Osh toa’wha eh tawenta.

Somehow, he recognized the cadence. A faint hissing, a whisper, then a dry voice. The shadows moved across the table, shifting. Then he realized that the voice was his own. The words repeated, filling out with meaning. Filling in. He lifted his eyes. The sun was brilliant. Molten orange, a lake of burnished copper. And the shadows outside the window. The dead gathered, clear now with his spirit-eye. He kept the chant up. Their talk hardly registered.

Osh toa’wha eh tawenta.

The sun thrummed with the words, with his body. It all vibrated with the power of the words he sung.

Osh toa’wha eh tawenta.

He didn’t think, didn’t worry. Just sang the words and felt their power grow. The raven’s-tongue was strong – much stronger than any he’d ever had when making a spirit journey before. This time, he wasn’t making a journey. No darkened room, no laying on the floor, no visualization of the field or the stairs leading down into the earth.

Osh toa’wha eh tawenta.

Even from where he was, he could feel the power at the lake. The edge of an opening was expanding. He could almost see it, filling the afternoon air. It coiled around trees and settled in low spots. It sent streams of darkness into the sky, poisoned blood. Nashoonon stood up. He trembled with the energy of the vision world. He went to the window and looked out. The dead gathered around the cabin. A dozen or more watched him. They were washed out, as void of color as they were void of life. Their talk was loud and agitated.

"…sent me to this hell, and all I wanted was my Loralei, and my eyes are gone…"

The voices.

"… the water is always so cold and the fishes move across me and pick away at my face and neck and the cold mud is choking me…"

The one he’d come to think of as the soldier was nearest the window. With the raven’s-tongue, Nashoonon could see his skin, his hair, his eyes. His expression. It was full of anger and despair, and it was directed at him. The sunlight passed through him and cast no shadow.

He wasn’t panicking, but he needed to know what to do. The back of his neck was humming. Nashoonon went to the door, pulled it open. The deep sunlight warmed his skin. He had one hope, one way to find the answers. He looked around, searching. The dead filled the yard. They turned to him. Further than the others, some of his people: half a dozen women and their children. One minute they were whole, desolate – the next, they were aflame and thrashing in agony.

"Osh toa’wha eh tawenta," he said. His voice trembled – the dead had never been so clear. He looked at them, those closest, those furthest. Searching. It was hard not to shrink back from their eyes, their gazes, the anger and envy and loss they held. The apparition just before the window turned to face him – the one he'd been looking for.

"Uncle," Nashoonon said.

It was Pannalancet. He stood still, a faded vision. His eyes, normally keen and sharp, were washed out sea-shells; his hair and clothes hung damp; his blue lips leaked lake water, his voice gurgled, spoken from lungs soaked and full of it.

There is little time.

There was no comfort in the voice.

I cannot speak to you much. It is only through Tannawenta and O’otah that the words pass.

"Why are they following me – the dead?" Nashoonon said.

You have been touched by the power of the lake, and they are drawn to you. Drawn like a fish below the surface of the night water is drawn to the moon. They will stay with you.

Pannalancet’s shape grew indistinct, breaking apart in shards, then connecting.

The opening grows, and the darkness from beyond. The Cursed Sachems are about, and worse. Stronger beings are coming, drawn to the growing hole. Once they are through...

"What?" Nashoonon said.

Pannalancet’s figure reached forward and passed a hand through him, through his face and eyes. And he saw it, the vision from the other side of the lake. A yell broke from his throat and he snapped back with a start. Every bit of his flesh was crawling. Even the dead were a welcome sight.

The Cursed Sachems have begun to gather their armies of the dead – they will begin to move out, to hunt down our people, wherever they are. Villages, towns, territories far from here. None of our people will survive unless they are stopped now. They will take out their cursed vengeance upon all of us – all who were supposed to guard against this. They bring more terrible forces with them, too – if they can get them through.

Pannalancet’s spirit turned to the lake and pointed to the darkness rising into the sunset sky.

You must shut the gate before it opens all the way. Shut it. Now.

Soon, he had a fire going in the shed behind the cabin, built right on top of the pile of cold ashes he'd found there. The dead stayed outside, except for Pannalancet, who sat across from the fire – and whose eyes didn’t catch and shine back the flames. Nashoonon’s back shuddered with chills, a side effect of the raven’s tongue. He opened the jar that the boy had brought back from the lake’s edge, from Pannalancet’s ceremony. His ceremony, now.

This will focus the power. It will fill your veins. It is already inside you. This is the blood of our people.

Nashoonon nodded.

You've run from it and fought with it, but you are of the people. Your mother, your father – their mothers, their fathers. Stretching back in this land. You are the last. But I’m here with you, and the blood of our people is here with you.

"Why?" he asked. It wasn’t a question about the situation, but a question for his uncle.

Because I’ve loved you as I would have my own son – the one who died as a babe. The only one.

Nashoonon looked at the faint shade of Pannalancet. His face looked calm. His words sunk deeply into him.

You must begin the ceremony.

An hour passed and then it was time. He stopped chanting. The sudden silence held the echoes of the prayers, of his voice and Pannalancet’s; as Nashoonon had sung the words with his uncle’s spirit, he’d heard both voices quite clearly. He looked at his hands. They shimmered like the embers of the fire, coated with a layer of shifting red – the bloodfire. It ran up his arms, through his shoulders to the back of his neck, and up onto his scalp. It was there, nothing to scoff at, no figment of an old man’s imagination – no imaginary carrot held out to move a stubborn young man to participate in the ceremonies. It moved over and through him, hot and strong. He looked up at the shade of his uncle.